То

HOLLAND.

men of other minds my fancy flies, Embosomed in the deep where Holland lies. Methinks her patient sons before me stand, Where the broad ocean leans against the land, And, sedulous to stop the coming tide, Lift the tall rampire's artificial pride. Onward, methinks, and diligently slow, The firm connected bulwark seems to grow; Spreads its long arms amidst the watery roar, Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore: While the pent ocean, rising o'er the pile, Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile: The slow canal, the yellow-blossomed vale, The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail, The crowded mart, the cultivated plain, A new creation rescued from his reign.

Oliver Goldsmith.

IN

HOLLAND.

four days Zealand's coasts appear,
And a wished port we find at Veer.
Thence Middleburgh by land we gain;
Next morn once more we tempt the main;
And soon with joy at Dort arrive,
Whence Maese and Waal unite to drive
With kindred streams invading focs,

And every bold attack oppose.

At Rotterdam, with reverence due; Erasmus my attention drew;

Then Delft, where thy proud tomb, Nassau, Claims equal reverence, equal awe!

At Leyden we reposed that night; And, with the next returning light, Received the welcome of a pair, Distinguished by Apollo's care,Saumaise and Heinsius, whom the Nine Have blessed with all their warmth divine! The public library surveyed,

And anatomic hall, we strayed

Among the choice exotic trees,

And saw whate'er could strangers please.
At Haerlem, our next stage, just fame
For the first printing-press they claim,
And for the ships, with saw-like prows,
Fatal to their Pelusian foes.

To Amsterdam we haste, and there
With looks which heartfelt joy declare,
Choice friends our wished arrival greet;
Bochart and Vossius there we meet,
And (though unmentioned) numbers more,
All bound to Sweden's distant shore.
How pleasant, when abroad we roam,
To find the friends most loved at home!

To Utrecht then we take our way,

And there to matchless Schurman pay
Our due respects, her sex's pride;
With admiration I descried

The virgin's works of every kind,
The labors of her hands and mind.
Departing thence, at night we meet
With paltry lodgings at Elspeet;
Holm dishes held our rustic cheer,
Straw was our bedding, threshed this year.
From thence next day to Zwoll we went,
Where his long life good Kempis spent,
And still his pious fame survives,

And in his grateful country lives.

Bishop Huet.

Tr. J. Duncombe.

LOVE IN WINTER.

I.

LOVE is like the roses,

And every rose shall fall,

For sure as summer closes

They perish, one and all.

Then love, while leaves are on the tree,
And birds sing in the bowers :
When winter comes, too late 't will be
To pluck the happy flowers."

It is a maiden singing,

An ancient girl, in sooth;

The dizzy room is ringing

With her shrill song of youth;

The white keys sob as swift she tries
Each shrill and shrieking scale:

"O, love is like the roses!" cries This muslined nightingale.

In a dark corner dozing,

I close my eyes and ears,
And call up, while reposing,
A glimpse from other years;
A genre-picture, quaint and Dutch,
I see from this dark seat,

"T is full of human brightness, such As makes remembrance sweet.

II.

Flat leagues of endless meadows
(In Holland lies the scene),
Where many pollard-shadows
O'er nut-brown ditches lean;
Gray clouds above that never break,
Mists the pale sunbeams stripe,
With groups of steaming cattle, make
A landscape "after Cuyp."

A windmill, and below it
A cottage near a road,
Where some meek pastoral poet
Might make a glad abode;
A cottage with a garden, where
Prim squares of pansies grow,
And, sitting on a garden-chair,
A dame with locks of snow,

In trim black, trussed and bodiced,
With petticoat of red,

And on her bosom modest

A kerchief white bespread.

Alas! the breast that heaves below
Is shrivelled now and thin,

Though vestal thoughts as white as snow
Still palpitate within.

Now come, now gone, in dying swells
The Sabbath sounds are blown.

Her cheek a withered rose is,
Her eye a violet dim;
Half in her chair she dozes,

And hums a happy hymn.

But soft! what wonder makes her start And lift her aged head,

While the faint flutterings of her heart

Just touch her cheek with red?

The latch clicks; through the gateway
An aged wight steps slow,
Then pauses, doffing straightway
His broad-brimmed gay chapeau!