And he says "I rides in de creen wood
Mit helmet und mit shpeer,
Till I cooms into em Gasthaus,

Und dere I trinks some beer."

Und den outshpoke de maiden
Vot hadn't got nodings on-
"I tont dink mooch of beoplesh
Dat goes mit demselfs alone;

"You'd petter coom down in de wasser,
Vere deres heaps of dings to see,
Und hafe a shplendid tinner

Und drafel along mit me:

"Dere you sees de fisch a schwimmin, Und you catches dem efery one:

So sang dis wasser maiden

Vot hadn't got nodings on.

“Dere ish drunks all full mit money
In ships dat vent down of old;
Und you helpsh yourself, by dunder!
To shimmerin crowns of gold.

"Shoost look at dese shpoons und vatches! Shoost see dese diamant rings!

Coom down and full your bockets,

Und I'll giss you like avery dings.

"Vot you vantsh mit your schnapps und lager? Coom down into der Rhine!

Der ish pottles der Kaiser Charlemagne
Vonce fill'd mit gold-red wine!"

Dat fetch'd him, he shtood all shpell-pound;

She pool'd his coat-tails down,

She draw'd him oonder der wasser,

De maiden mit nodings on.

GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS.

Born at Providence, Rhode Island, 1824

SONG.

RUSHES lean over the water,

Shells lie on the shore,

And thou, the blue Ocean's daughter, Sleep'st soft in the song of its roar.

Clouds sail over the ocean,

White gusts fleck its calm, But never its wildest motion

Thy beautiful rest should harm.

White feet on the edge of the billow
Mock its smooth-seething cream;
Hard ribs of beach-sand thy pillow,
And a noble lover thy dream.

Like tangles of sea-weed streaming
Over a perfect pearl,

Thy fair hair fringes thy dreaming,
O sleeping Lido girl!

PEARL-SEED.

SONGS are sung in my mind

As pearls are form'd in the sea, Each thought with thy name entwined Becomes a sweet song in me.

Dimly those pale pearls shine,
Hidden under the sea,-
Vague are those songs of mine,
So deeply they lie in me.

EBB AND FLOW.

I WALK'D beside the evening sea,

And dream'd a dream that could not be ;
The waves that plunged along the shore,
Said only-" Dreamer! dream no more!"

But still the legions charged the beach,
And rang their battle-cry, like speech;
But changed was the imperial strain;
It murmur'd-"Dreamer! dream again!"

I homeward turn'd from out the gloom,
That sound I heard not in my room;
But suddenly a sound that stirr'd
Within my very breast, I heard.

It was my heart, that like a sea
Within my breast beat ceaselessly,
But like the waves along the shore,

It said " Dream on!" and "Dream no more!"

MAJOR AND MINOR.

A BIRD sang sweet and strong
In the top of the highest tree;
sang- "I pour out my soul in song

He

For the summer that soon shall be.'

For the springs that return no more."

ADELINE D. TRAIN WHITNEY.

Born at Boston, Mass: 1824

BEHIND THE MASK.

It was an old distorted face,

An uncouth visage rough and wild,
Yet from behind with laughing grace
Peep'd the fresh beauty of a child.

And so, contrasting strange to-day,
My heart of youth doth inly ask
If half earth's wrinkled grimness may
Be but the baby in the mask.

Behind grey hairs and furrow'd brow
And wither'd look that life puts on
Each, as he wears it, comes to know
How the child hides, and is not gone.

For while the inexorable years

To sadden'd features fit their mould, Beneath the work of time and tears Waits something that will not grow old.

The rifted pine upon the hill,

Scarr'd by the lightning and the wind, Through bolt and blight doth nurture still Young fibres underneath the rind;

And many a storm-blast, fiercely sent,
And wasted hope, and sinful stain,
Roughen the strange integument

The struggling soul must wear in pain.

Yet, when she comes to claim her own,
Heaven's angels haply shall not ask
For that last look the world hath known,—
But for the face behind the mask.

RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.

Born at Hingham, Mass: 1825

ABRAHAM LINCOLN.
(An Horatian Ode.)

Nor as when some great Captain falls
In battle, where his Country calls,
Beyond the struggling lines

That push his dread designs

To doom, by some stray ball struck dead :
Or, in the last charge, at the head
Of his determined men,

Who must be victors then!

Nor as when sink the civic Great,
The safer pillars of the State,

Whose calm, mature, wise words
Suppress the need of swords!

With no such tears as e'er were shed
Above the noblest of our Dead

Do we to-day deplore

The Man that is no more!

Our sorrow hath a wider scope,

Too strange for fear, too vast for hope,A Wonder, blind and dumb,

That waits-what is to come!

Not more astounded had we been
If Madness, that dark night, unseen,
Had in our chambers crept,
And murder'd while we slept!

We woke to find a mourning Earth-
Our Lares shiver'd on the hearth,-
The roof-tree fallen,—all
That could affright, appall!