while the throstle sat on the top of a yellow-grown birch, and sang the elegy of summer's decline, or the death of nature.

If you love the enthusiasm of feeling, the delirious longing which does not fasten upon earthly objects, but looks up towards the azure-colored pavilion of the stars where bliss dwells, and where the grief of the beating heart is soothed, turn to the romantic literature of the West, during the middle ages, when the troubadour sang of his unearthly love, and the knight fought with equal ardor for the holy Virgin and for the glory of the chaste and fair mistress of his heart.

But if you prefer richness of sentiment and philosophic depth of thought, if you would look down into the deep of man's breast, if you would see all the veins of his heart uncovered, as it were, by a stroke of magic, go to the heroes of modern song, to those who have walked on their own independent career, to those who disdained to listen to the voice of others, but drew their inspiration from the events of their own age, and the fervor of their own great souls.

Among the Greeks, we find a poetical spirit which is never unmindful of itself, which never forgets the whole for any favored part, which never loses apprehension, clearness and insight, even in the most stormy moments of inspiration. In respect to form and representation, we find an instinct against the extravagant and overloaded, an exquisite sense of the purely beautiful, a severity and correctness of style which does not ravish, but only charms us, which does not agitate but appeases our feelings. All is as easy, as unaffected, as if it were the spontaneous expression of nature, called forth without care so simple and natural as if it could not have been otherwise. The romantic poetry in all its branches may be compared to an oak, which in mighty but irregular forms bends awfully from the gaping crevices of the mountain over the dim valley: whereas the growth of Grecian art is slender, and straight as a majestic palm, with its rich symmetrical crown, and a singing nightingale concealed among the foliage.

MY STUDY.

"Hark! from the dim church-tower,

The pealing curfews chime-”

A POETICAL mode of informing the gentle reader that the old clock on the mantel-piece has struck ten. Time has been winging himself away through the snow-storms of an April evening, while within here we have been mellowing the heart, and smoothing the rigid brow of the old churl with a richer intellectual libation than ever flowed to the inspiration of the "jolly god." Lord Byron in the latter part of his life-that sad and shameful period which was, alas, but too nearly of a piece with its earlier and lighter portion-Lord Byron, I say, hiccupped out the drunken stanzas of Don Juan in a kindred stream of diluted brandy; and this he then pronounced your poet's genuine fount of inspiration. Moore-et id omne genus-have gloried in wine as the true unsealer of the fountains of poesy. "Fill high the bowl with Samian wine" is their motto, faithfully lived up to. Now for us-who, we take it, were born a poet-born to sing some immortal song that the world will not willingly let die-(Is that tautology, reader? If you think so, remember the lines,

One of the few, the immortal names
That were not born to die.)

we, I say, eschewed from our very infancy all drinks save and excepting cold water-and black tea. The muse that distilled upon our infant lips the dews of Castaly, and dandled us for a season in her own bowers, put in a timely interdict against defiling ourselves with any stronger beverage. Her own clear current of inspiration, she averred, should never be soiled by admixture with the grosser elements of men's degrading and sensualizing stimulants. So she left our poetic fountain to flow unadulterated by any other liquid than that distilled in the great laboratory of nature, viz., cold water, with, as aforesaid, now and then a slight infusion of black tea. It was thus, she said, she had trained up her favorite sons, Homer and Milton. Cold water-cold water-this was the fountain from which had sparkled

and gushed forth that stream of healthful, pure and heavenly song which, transparent and deep as the crystal heaven, has and ever will spread itself abroad through all ages and nations in a bounteous, beneficent, beautifying, fertilizing stream. But-"quo me rapis, Yoop, plenum tui?" Nunc ad inceptum redeo-to get back to my starting-point. The evening has been spent in a rich free interchange of thought and feeling among a few congenial spirits, with now and then an interlude of song, and our lips occasionally moistened from the urn that poured forth its bubbling streams near the fire. And now they are gone. The clock struck ten-an affectionate shake of the hand-a hearty au revoir, (how much more graceful than the clumsy zum weidersehen!) — and they are gone. I feel like one who treads alone, etc. How delightfully the evening has flown! What an overhauling we have given to German literature! Rarely have Meine Herren, Goethe and Schiller been more thoroughly sifted than during this evening's discussion. Well, it is all over-sori d'ön vv čor—it is as it is; and before seeking the aid of tired nature's sweet restorer, I ascend for a little time to my study, to hold for an hour or two my lonely vigils among the spirits of the mighty dead.

Apropos! here on the table lies Dwight's translation of the select minor poems of Schiller and Goethe. With some poor things, still on the whole an admirable volume. Some of them I have read many times; particularly several of Goethe's ballads, of whom Dwight seems an enthusiastic admirer, and whom he prefers, naturally though perhaps somewhat unreasonably, to Schiller. Goethe had undoubtedly more genius than Schiller. He had more versatile powers, was more capable of drawing and assimilating aliment from a great variety of sources for the formation of a symmetrical and harmonious character. His views were wide-sweeping, and as an artist he had no rival. But he had not Schiller's lofty moral aim. Indeed, he seems to have had scarcely any conception of true morality. And even speaking in a literary point of view, how many of his smaller pieces can rival, in polished elegance, and Grecian finish, the classical ballads of Schiller? The Victor's Banquet, the Complaint of Ceres, Cassandra, Hero and Leander, the

Cranes of Ibycus, and some others are nearly perfect. "The Ideal and Life," is admirably translated by Dwight. The Cranes of Ibycus is spiritedly rendered by Charles T. Brooks, who, however, has spoiled what would have been a fine translation of Hero and Leander, by a most capricious and unpardonable abandonment, in nearly half the stanzas, of the rhyme of the original. Had he abandoned it throughout he would have had some apology for his proceeding, and his production would have been consistent. Frothingham's "Cassandra" is, on the whole, fine, though it has some tame lines (e. g. "I can see a torch that gleams,") and the neglect of the trochaic endings of the second and fourth lines, detracts much from the grace of the original, though of course it lightens the task of the translator. A translation of Cassandra appeared a few years ago in Blackwood, from the pen of a son of Mrs. Hemans. It possesses much poetic spirit and power, but is too free for a translation, and in a few instances the translator mistakes entirely his author's meaning.

As I turn over the book my eye lights on "The Magician's Apprentice" of Goethe, in many respects admirably done, yet falling far short of the inimitable original. The original, as a work of art, is perfect. It must have been a favorite with its author, slightly elaborated. Its simplicity is severe and statuesque. There is not a word in which the writer lets down his dignity, and hardly a line that seems capable of improvement. This cannot be said of the translation. There is, perhaps, not a single stanza in which a close criticism will not discover some striking defects; some undignified expression; or some word which weakens and clogs the sentence, evidently thrown in for the sake of the rhyme. I might give many illustrations of this. Let the German scholar take the following translation of the lines commencing

"Und num Konem, der alter Besen," etc.

And now come, old broom, bestir thee,
Fling the tattered mop-cloths round thee,
Thou hast long served late and early
To my bidding now I've bound thee.
With two legs to stand on,
Head, hands, and what not,
Broom as I command, on
On, with water pot! ́

No reader of taste can fail to perceive the immeasurable superiority of the original in simplicity and dignity. But I will not continue my criticism, as it might provoke a stricter judgment of that which I propose to offer the reader. Though doubtless intended by the muse to produce a great epic poem, I am sensible that I have not yet reached the stature requisite therefor. Besides, I am not sure that she ever intended that I should translate Goethe's Magician's Apprentice. However, I must try my hand at it. Let me see. The clock is now on the stroke of eleven. I allow myself just two hours to execute the work, and at the end of that time "what is writ" must be "writ."