FROM THE GERMAN OF HEINRICH

HEINE.

THE sea hath its pearls,

The heaven hath its stars; But my heart, my heart,

My heart hath its love.

Great are the sea and the heaven;
Yet greater is my heart,
And fairer than pearls and stars
Flashes and beams my love.
Thou little, youthful maiden,

Come unto my great heart; My heart, and the sea, and the heaven

Are melting away with love!

THE LEGEND OF THE
CROSSBILL.

FROM THE GERMAN OF JULIUS MOSEN.
ON the cross the dying Saviour
Heavenward lifts his eyelids calm,

In his pierced and bleeding palm.

And by all the world forsaken,
Sees he how with zealous care
At the ruthless nail of iron

A little bird is striving there.

Stained with blood and never tiring, With its beak it doth not cease; From the cross 'twould free the Saviour,

Its Creator's Son release.

And the Saviour speaks in mildness: "Blest be thou of all the good! Bear, as token of this moment,

Marks of blood and holy rood!"

And that bird is called the crossbill;
Covered all with blood so clear,
In the groves of pine it singeth
Songs, like legends, strange to
hear.

THE STATUE OVER THE
CATHEDRAL DOOR.

FROM THE GERMAN OF JULIUS
MOSEN.

FORMS of saints and kings are standing
The cathedral door above;
Yet I saw but one among them

Who hath soothed my soul with
love.

In his mantle,-wound about him,

As their robes the sowers wind,— Bore he swallows and their fledglings, Flowers and weeds of every kind. And so stands he calm and childlike, High in wind and tempest wild; Oh were I like him exalted,

I would be like him, a child! And my songs,-green leaves and blossoms,

To the doors of heaven would bear, Calling, even in storm and tempest, Round me still these birds of air.

POETIC APHORISMS. FROM THE SINNGEDICHTE OF FRIEDRICH VON LOGAU.

Seventeenth Century.

MONEY.

WHEREUNTO is money good?
Who has it not wants hardihood,
Who has it has much trouble and care,
Who once has had it has despair.

THE BEST MEDICINE.

Joy and Temperance and Repose Slam the door on the doctor's nose.

SIN.

MAN-LIKE is it to fall into sin,
Fiend-like is it to dwell therein,
Christ-like is it for sin to grieve,
God-like is it all sin to leave.

POVERTY AND BLINDNESS.

A BLIND man is a poor man, and blind a poor man is ;

For the former seeth no man, and the latter no man sees.

LAW OF LIFE.

LIVE I, so live I,

To my Lord heartily,

To my Prince faithfully,
To my Neighbour honestly.
Die I, so die I,

HE is gone to the desert land! I can see the shining mane Of his horse on the distant plain, As he rides with his Kossak band!

Come back, rebellious one! Let thy proud heart relent; Come back to my tall white tent, Come back, my only son!

Not one of all the band could I see, All had sunk in the black morass Where are our shallow fords? and where

The power of Kazan with its fourfold gates?

From the prison windows our maidens fair

Talk of us still through the iron grates.

We cannot hear them; for horse and

man

Lie buried deep in the dark abyss ! Ah! the black day hath come down on Kazan!

Ah! was ever a grief like this?

THE BOY AND THE BROOK. Armenian Popular Song, from the Prose Version of Alishan.

DOWN from yon distant mountain height

The brooklet flows through the village street;

A boy comes forth to wash his hands. Washing, yes washing, there he stands,

In the water cool and sweet.

TO THE STORK. Armenian Popular Song, from the Prose Version of Alishan.

WELCOME, O Stork! that dost wing
Thy flight from the far-away!
Thou hast brought us the signs of
Spring,

Thou hast made our sad hearts gay.

Descend, O Stork! descend
Upon our roof to rest ;
In our ash-tree, O my friend,
My darling, make thy nest.

To thee, O Stork, I complain,

O Stork, to thee I impart
The thousand sorrows, the pain
And aching of my heart.
When thou away didst go,

Away from this tree of ours,
The withering winds did blow,
And dried up all the flowers.
Dark grew the brilliant sky,

Cloudy and dark and drear; They were breaking the snow on high, And winter was drawing near.

From Varaca's rocky wall,

From the rock of Varaca unrolled,

cold,

Where lieth the new snow on the old,

And melts in the summer heat.
Brook, to what river dost thou go?
O my brooklet cool and sweet!

I go to the river there below
Where in bunches the violets grow,

And sun and shadow meet.

Brook, to what garden dost thou go?
O my brooklet cool and sweet!

I go to the garden in the vale
Where all night long the nightingale

Her love-song doth repeat.
Brook, to what fountain dost thou go?
O my brooklet cool and sweet!
I go to the fountain at whose brink
The maid that loves thee comes to
drink,

And whenever she looks therein

I rise to meet her, and kiss her chin, And my joy is then complete.

And the green meadow was cold.

Stork, our garden with snow Was hidden away and lost, And the rose-trees that in it grow Were withered by snow and frost.

CONSOLATION.

To M. Duperrier, Gentleman of Aix in Provence, on the Death of his Daughter.

FROM MALHERBE.

WILL then, Duperrier, thy sorrow be eternal?

And shall the sad discourse Whispered within thy heart, by tenderness paternal, Only augment its force?

Thy daughter's mournful fate, into the tomb descending By death's frequented ways,

Has it become to thee a labyrinth never ending,

Where thy lost reason strays?

I know the charms that made her youth a benediction :

Nor should I be content,

As a censorious friend, to solace thine affliction

By her disparagement.

But she was of the world, which fair

est things exposes

To fates the most forlorn;

Their fore-ordained necessity,
Has made no law more fixed below,
Than the alternate ebb and flow
Of Fortune and Adversity.

THE ANGEL AND THE CHILD.

FROM JEAN REBOUL, THE BAKER
OF NISMES.

AN angel with a radiant face.
Above a cradle bent to look,

live the roses,

Death has his rigorous laws, unparalleled, unfeeling;

All prayers to him are vain ; Cruel, he stops his ears, and, deaf to our appealing,

He leaves us to complain. The poor man in his hut, with only thatch for cover,

Unto these laws must bend; The sentinel that guards the barriers of the Louvre

Cannot our kings defend.

To murmur against death, in petulant defiance,

Is never for the best ;

To will what God doth will, that is the only science

That gives us any rest.

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TO CARDINAL RICHELIEU.

FROM MALHERBE.

THOU mighty Prince of Church and

State,

Richelieu! until the hour of death,
Whatever road man chooses, Fate
Still holds him subject to her breath.
Spun of all silks, our days and nights,
Have sorrows woven with delights;
And of this intermingled shade

Our various destiny appears,
Even as one sees the course of years
Of summers and of winters made.
Sometimes the soft, deceitful hours
Let us enjoy the halcyon wave;
Sometimes impending peril lowers
Beyond the seaman's skill to save.
The Wisdom, infinitely wise,
That gives to human destinies

As in the waters of a brook.

'Dear child! who me resemblest so," Hewhispered, "come, oh come with Happy together let us go, [me ! The earth unworthy is of thee !

"Here none to perfect bliss attain; The soul in pleasure suffering lies; Joy hath an undertone of pain,

And even the happiest hours their sighs.

"Fear doth at every portal knock; Never a day serene and pure From the o'ershadowing tempest's shock

cure. Hath made the morrow's dawn se

'What, then, shall sorrows and shall fears

Come to disturb so pure a brow? And with the bitterness of tears These eyes of azure troubled grow? "Ah, no! into the fields of space, Away shalt thou escape with me ; And Providence will grant the grace Of all the days that were to be.

'Let no one in thy dwelling cower, In sombre vestments draped and veiled; But let them welcome thy last hour, As thy first moments once they hailed.

"Without a cloud be there each brow;

There let the grave no shadow cast; When one is pure as thou art now, The fairest day is still the last.'

And waving wide his wings of white,

The angel at these words had sped Towards the eternal realms of light!Poor mother! see, thy son is dead!