SONG OF WOOD-NYMPHS.

COME here, come here, and dwell
In forest deep!

Come here, come here, and tell
Why thou dost weep!

Is it for love (sweet pain!)

That thus thou dar'st complain

Unto our pleasant shades, our summer leaves, Where naught else grieves?

Come here, come here, and lie

By whispering stream!

Here no one dares to die

For love's sweet dream;

But health all seek, and joy,

And shun perverse annoy,

And race along green paths till close of day, And laugh- alway!

Or else, through half the year,

On rushy floor,

We lie by waters clear,

While skylarks pour

Their songs into the sun!

And when bright day is done,

We hide 'neath bells of flowers or nodding corn, And dream till morn!

BARRY CORNWALL

He kissed me twice, he kissed me thrice, but when he kissed again,

I called aloud upon the name of Him who died for men.

Sing, sing! ring, ring! pleasant Sabbath bells! Chime, rhyme! chime, rhyme! thorough dales and dells!

Rhyme, ring! chime, sing! pleasant Sabbath bells!

Chime, sing! rhyme, ring! over fields and fells!

O faintly, faintly, faintly, calling men and maids to pray,

So faintly, faintly, faintly rang the bells far

away;

And as I named the Blessed Name, as in our need we can,

The ugly green green gnome became a tall and comely man

His hands were white, his beard was gold, his eyes were black as sloes,

His tunic was of scarlet woof, and silken were his hose;

A pensive light from Faëryland still lingered on his cheek,

His voice was like the running brook, when he began to speak;

"O, you have cast away the charm my step-dame put on me,

Seven years I dwelt in Faëryland, and you have set me free.

O, I will mount thy palfrey white, and ride to kirk with thee,

And, by those little dewy eyes, we twain will wedded be!"

Back we galloped, never stopping, he before and I behind,

And the autumn leaves were dropping, red and yellow, in the wind:

And the sun was shining clearer, and my heart was high and proud,

As nearer, nearer, nearer rang the kirk bells sweet and loud,

the bells.

Ring, sing ring, sing! pleasant Sabbath bells! Chime, rhyme! chime, rhyme ! thorough dales

and dells!

Rhyme, ring! chime, sing! pleasant Sabbath bells!

Chime, sing! rhyme, ring! over fields and fells!

ROBERT BUCHANAN.

LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI. "O, WHAT can ail thee; knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering?

The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.

"O, what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,

And the harvest 's done.

"I see a lily on thy brow

With anguish moist and fever-dew, And on thy cheeks a fading rose Fast withereth too."

"I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful, -a fairy's child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

"I made a garland for her head,

And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She looked at me as she did love,

And made sweet moan.

"I set her on my pacing steed,

And nothing else saw all day long ; For sidelong would she bend, and sing A fairy's song.

"She found me roots of relish sweet,

And honey wild and manna-dew; And sure in language strange she said, 'I love thee true.'

"She took me to her elfin grot,

And there she wept, and sighed full sore. And there I shut her wild, wild eyes With kisses four.

"And there she lulled me asleep,

And there I dreamed-ah, woe betide!— The latest dream I ever dreamed On the cold hill's side.

"The wind to the waves is calling,

The moonlight is fading away;
And tears down thy cheek are falling,
Thou beautiful water-fay!"

"The wind to the waves is calling,
And the moonlight grows dim on the rocks;
But no tears from mine eyes are falling,
'Tis the water which drips from my locks."

"The ocean is heaving and sobbing,

The sea-mews scream in the spray; And thy heart is wildly throbbing, Thou beautiful water-fay!"

"My heart is wildly swelling,

And it beats in burning truth; For I love thee past all telling, Thou beautiful mortal youth."

-

HENRY HEINE (German). Translation of CHARLES G. LELAND.

THE waters purled, the waters swelled, A fisher sat near by,

And earnestly his line beheld

With tranquil heart and eye;
And while he sits and watches there,

He sees the waves divide,
And, lo! a maid, with glistening hair,
Springs from the troubled tide.

She sang to him, she spake to him, -
"Why lur'st thou from below,

In cruel mood, my tender brood,
To die in day's fierce glow?

Ah! didst thou know how sweetly there

The little fishes dwell,

Thou wouldst come down their lot to share, And be forever well.

"Bathes not the smiling sun at nightThe moon too in the waves ?

Comes he not forth more fresh and bright
From ocean's cooling caves?
Canst thou unmoved that deep world see,
That heaven of tranquil blue,
Where thine own face is beckoning thee
Down to the eternal dew?

The waters purled, the waters swelled,
They kissed his naked feet;
His heart a nameless transport held,
As if his love did greet.

She spake to him, she sang to him;
Then all with him was o'er,
Half drew she him, half sank he in,
He sank to rise no more.

GOETHE. Translation of CHARLES T. BROOKS.

THE NIGHTINGALE AND GLOW-WORM.
A NIGHTINGALE, that all day long
Had cheered the village with his song,
Nor yet at eve his note suspended,
Nor yet when eventide was ended,
Began to feel - as well he might

The keen demands of appetite;
When, looking eagerly around,

He spied, far off, upon the ground,
A something shining in the dark,
And knew the glow-worm by his spark ;
So, stooping down from hawthorn top,
He thought to put him in his crop.
The worm, aware of his intent,
Harangued him thus, quite eloquent,

"Did you admire my lamp," quoth he, "As much as I your minstrelsy, You would abhor to do me wrong, As much as I to spoil your song; For 't was the self-same Power divine Taught you to sing, and me to shine; That you with music, I with light, Might beautify and cheer the night." The songster heard his short oration, And, warbling out his approbation, Released him, as my story tells, And found a supper somewhere else.

And so all her schemes for the future were ended.

This moral, I think, may be safely attached, "Reckon not on your chickens before they are hatched."

JEFFREYS TAYLOR.

THE TOAD'S JOURNAL

[It is said that Belzoni, the traveller in Egypt, discovered a living toad in a temple which had been for ages buried in the sand.] IN a land for antiquities greatly renowned A traveller had dug wide and deep under ground,

The roll which this reptile's long history records,
A treat to the sage antiquarian affords:
The sense by obscure hieroglyphics concealed,
Deep learning at length, with long labor, revealed.
The first thousand years as a specimen take,
The dates are omitted for brevity's sake:
"Crawled forth from some rubbish, and winked
with one eye;

Half opened the other, but could not tell why;
Stretched out my left leg, as it felt rather queer,
Then drew all together and slept for a year.
Awakened, felt chilly, crept under a stone;
Was vastly contented with living alone.
One toe became wedged in the stone like a peg,
Could not get it away, had the cramp in my leg;

Began half to wish for a neighbor at hand

To loosen the stone, which was fast in the sand; Pulled harder, then dozed, as I found 't was no

use;

Awoke the next summer, and lo! it was loose. Crawled forth from the stone when completely awake;

Crept into a corner and grinned at a snake.
Retreated, and found that I needed repose;
Curled up my damp limbs and prepared for a doze;
Fell sounder to sleep than was usual before,
And did not awake for a century or more;
But had a sweet dream, as I rather believe:
Methought it was light, and a fine summer's eve;
And I in some garden deliciously fed

In the pleasant moist shade of a strawberry-bed.
There fine speckled creatures claimed kindred with

me,

And others that hopped, most enchanting to see.
Here long I regaled with emotion extreme;
Awoke, disconcerted to find it a dream ;
Grew pensive, discovered that life is a load;
Began to get weary of being a toad;

Was fretful at first, and then shed a few tears."
Here ends the account of the first thousand years.

MORAL.

It seems that life is all a void,
On selfish thoughts alone employed;
That length of days is not a good,
Unless their use be understood.

JANE TAYLOR.

THE PHILOSOPHER TOAD.

Down deep in a hollow, so damp and so cold, Where oaks are by ivy o'ergrown,

The gray moss and lichen creep over the mould, Lying loose on a ponderous stone.

Now within this huge stone, like a king on his throne,

A toad has been sitting more years than is known; And strange as it seems, yet he constantly deems The world standing still while he's dreaming

his dreams,