How every blossom in the sunlight glances!

The winter-frost to his dark cavern flees, And earth, warm-wakened, feels through every vein The kindling influence of the vernal rain.

Now silvery streamlets, from the mountain stealing,
Dance joyously the verdant vales along;
Cold fear no more the songster's tongue is stealing;
Down in the thick, dark grove is heard his song;
And, all their bright and lovely hues revealing,

A thousand plants the field and forest throng;
Light comes upon the earth in radiant showers,
And mingling rainbows play among the flowers.

THE MOUNTAIN BOY.

[JOHANN LUDWIG UHLAND, a German poet, born at Tübingen, 1787, died there 1862, where he was professor of the German language and literature. His ballads and lyrical poems placed him at the head of the Suabian school of poets.]

The shepherd of the Alps am I,
The castles far beneath me lie;
Here first the ruddy sunlight gleams,
Here linger last the parting beams.
The mountain boy am I!

Here is the river's fountain-head,
I drink it from its stony bed;
As forth it leaps with joyous shout,
I seize it, ere it gushes out.

The mountain boy am I!

The mountain is my own domain;
It calls its storms from sea and plain:
From north to south they howl afar;
My voice is heard amid their war.

The mountain boy am I !

And when the tocsin sounds alarms,
And mountain bale-fires call to arms,
Then I descend, I join my king,
My sword I wave, my lay I sing.

The mountain boy am I!

The lightnings far beneath me lie;
High stand I here in clear blue sky;
I know them, and to them I call;
In quiet leave my father's hall.
The mountain boy am I!

THE PASSAGE.

Many a year is in its grave,
Since I crossed this restless wave;
And the evening, fair as ever,
Shines on ruin, rock, and river.

Then in this same boat beside
Sat two comrades old and tried,-
One with all a father's truth,
One with all the fire of youth.

One on earth in silence wrought,
And his grave in silence sought;
But the younger, brighter form
Passed in battle and in storm.

So, whene'er I turn my eye
Back upon the days gone by,
Saddening thoughts of friends come o'er me,
Friends that closed their course before me.

But what binds us, friend to friend,
But that soul with soul can blend?
Soul-like were those hours of yore;
Let us walk in soul once more.

Take, O boatman, thrice thy fee,-
Take, I give it willingly;
For, invisible to thee,
Spirits twain have crossed with me.
-Johann Ludwig Uhland.

CHRISTKINDLEIN.

(FRIEDRICH RUCKERT, one of the finest German lyrical poets (1789-1866), became an accomplished Oriental scholar and professor of Eastern languages at Erlangen, afterwards residing at Berlin. His translations from the Persian and Arabic are very fine, and his original poeme are distinguished by power and sweetness].

How bird-like o'er the flakes of snow
Its fairy footsteps flew!
And on its soft and childish brow
How delicate the hue!

And expectation wings its feet,
And stirs its infant smile;
The merry bells their chimes repeat;
The child stands still the while.

Then clasps in joy its little hand;

Then marks the Christian dome; The stranger child, in stranger land, Feels now as if at home.

It runs along the sparkling ground;
Its face with gladness beams;
It frolics in the blaze around,
Which from each window gleams.

The shadows dance upon the wall,
Reflected from the trees;
And from the branches, green and tail,
The glittering gifts it sees.

It views within the lighted hall

The charm of social love;

O, what a joyous festival!

'Tis sanctioned from above.

But now the childish heart's unstrung:
"Where is my taper's light?
And why no evergreen been hung
With toys for me to-night?

"In my sweet home there was a band Of holy love for me;

A mother's kind and tender hand Once decked my Christmas-tree.

"O, some one take me 'neath the blaze
Of those light tapers, do!
And, children, I can feel the plays;
O, let me play with you!

"I care not for the prettiest toy;
I want the love of home;
O, let me in your playful joy
Forget I have to roam !"

The little fragile hand is raised,
It strikes at every gate;
In every window earnest gazed,
Then 'mid the snow it sat.

"Christinkle!1thou the children's friend,
I've none to love me now!
Hast thou forgot my tree to send,
With lights on every bough?"

The baby's hands are numbed with frost,
Yet press the little cloak;
Then on its breast in meekness crossed,
A sigh the silence broke.

And closer still the cloak it drew Around its silken hair;

Its pretty eyes, so clear and blue, Alone defied the air.

Then came another pilgrim child,-
A shining light he held;
The accents fell so sweet and mild,
All music they excelled.

"I am thy Christmas friend, indeed,
And once a child like thee;
When all forgot, thou need'st not plead,—
I will adorn thy tree.

A corruption of tha German Christkindlein.. It means the child Christ, to whom it is thought all these gifts are owing.

"Shall far outshine those other trees, Which caught thine infant eye." The stranger child looks up, and sees, Far, in the deep blue sky,

A glorious tree, and stars among
The branches hang their light;
The child, with soul all music, sung,
"My tree indeed is bright!"

As 'neath the power of a dream
The infant closed its eyes,
And troops of radiant angels seem
Descending from the skies,

The baby to its Christ they bear;
With Jesus it shall live;

It finds a house and treasure there
Sweeter than earth can give.

THE LADIES OF LONG AGO.

[FRANÇOIS VILLON, a French poet, born 1431, was distinguished both as a great rogue and a great poet. He wrote his finest things in prison. We give one speci men of his powers:]

Tell me to what region flown
Is Flora, the fair Roman, gone?
Where lovely Thaïs' hiding-place,
Her sister in each charm and grace?
Echo, let thy voice awake,
Over river, stream, and lake:
Answer, where does beauty go ?—
Where is fled the south wind's snow?

Where is Eloïse the wise,
For whose two bewitching eyes
Hapless Abeillard was doomed
In his cell to live entombed?
Where the queen, her love who gave,
Cast in Seine, a watery grave?
Where each lovely cause of woe ?—
Where is fled the south wind's snow?

Where thy voice, O regal fair,
Sweet as is the lark's in air?
Where is Bertha ? Alix? she
Who Le Mayne held gallantly?
Where is Joan, whom English flamę
Gave, at Rouen, death and fame?
Where are all?-does any know ?—
Where is fled the south wind's snow?

OF PROFIT AND HONESTY.

There is no man but at one time or other says a silly thing; but the worst of it is when he affects it

Ne iste magno conatu magnas nugas dixerit. 1
The man in troth with much ado

Has prov'd that one and one make two This does not touch me. My nonsense slips from me with as little care as it merits, and it is well it does so. I would quit it on a sudden for the little there is in it of value, and neither buy nor sell it for more than the weight. I speak on paper as I do to the first man I meet; and that this is true observe what follows.

Who would not abhor treachery when Tiberius would not admit of it in a matter of such importance to him?? He had word sent from Germany that, if he thought fit, they would by poison rid him of Ariminius, who was the most powerful enemy the Romans had, he having treated them very basely in the time of Varus, and being the only man that opposed their dominion in those countries. The answer he returned was, that it was the custom of the Romans to be revenged on their enemies by open force, sword in hand; not clandestinely, nor by fraud: wherein he preferred the thing that was honourable to the profitable. He was (you will say) a hector. I believe as much; but that is no great wonder in the gentlemen of his profession. But the acknowledgment of virtue is no less valid by its coming from the lips of him who hates it, forasmuch as truth forces it from him; and if he will not sincerely embrace it, he puts it on at least by way of ornament.

Our structure, both external and internal, is full of imperfection; yet there is nothing in nature but what is of use, not even inutility itself. There is nothing in this universe which has not some proper place in it. Our being is cemented with certain mean qualities; ambition, jealousy, envy, revenge, superstition, despair, have so natural a lodg. ment in us that the image of them is discerned in the brute beasts; nay cruelty itself, a vice so much out of nature; for even in the midst of compassion we feel within us an unaccountable bitter-sweet titillation of ill-natured pleasure in seeing another suffer; and even children are sensible of it:

1 Torence, Heauton, act iii. scene 9. Tacit., Annal. lib. ii. cap. 88.

Suave mari magno turbantibus æquora ventis E lerra magnum alterius spectare laborem.1 'Tis sweet from land to see a storm at sea, And others sinking whilst ourselves are free. Whoever would divest man of the seeds of such qualities would destroy the fundamental conditions of human life. Likewise in all governments there are necessary offices, not only abject but vicious. Vices have their department there, and are employed as cement to connect us together, like poison that is administered for the preservation of our health. If they become excusable, as being necessary for us, and because the public necessity disguises their real qualities, we are to resign this part to the strongest and boldest citizens, who sacrifice their honour and conscience, as the ancients sacrificed their lives for the good of their country. We that are weaker play those parts that are more easy and less hazardous. The public weal requires that a should betray, tell lies, and commit murder: let us leave this commission to men that are more obedient and more supple.

man

I have really been often vexed to see judges by fraud and false hopes of favour or pardon draw in a criminal to confess his guilt; and to observe what recourse they therein have to tricking and impudence. It would be of good service to justice, and even to Plato himself, who countenances this manner of proceeding, to furnish me with other means more suitable to my inclination. It is a malicious kind of justice, and I think it is as much offended by itself as by others. I said not long since, in some company. that as I would be very sorry to betray any private man for the service of my prince, I would be very loth to betray my prince to any private man. As I have an aversion to cheat another, so I would hate to be deceived myself, and will not so much as furnish any pretext or occasion for it.

In the few concerns which I have had to negotiate between our princes, in those divisions and sub-divisions by which we are at this time rent, I have nicely avoided leading them into any mistakes of me, and their deceiving others by my mask. The people of this profession are the most reserved, and pretend to be the men of the greatest moderation, and the nearest conformity to the sentiments of those with whom they have to do. I speak sincerely

1 Lucret. lib. ii. ver. 1, 2.