THE FISHER. The water rush'd and bubbled by— An angler near it lay, And watch'd his quill, with tranquil eye, Upon the current play. And as he sits in wasteful dream, He sees the flood unclose, And from the middle of the stream She sang to him with witching wile, Ah! didst thou know how happy we Thou wouldst come down at once to me, "The sun and ladye-moon they lave And breathing freshness from the wave, The deep blue sky, so moist and clear, Does thine own face not woo thee down The water rush'd and bubbled by It lapp'd his naked feet; He thrill'd as though he felt the touch She spoke to him, she sang to him--- Half-drawn, he sank beneath the wave, Our next extract smacks of the Troubadours, and would have better suited good old King René of Provence than a Paladin of the days of Charlemagne. Goethe has neither the eye of Wouverman nor Borgognone, and sketches but an indifferent battle-piece. Homer was a stark moss-trooper, and so was Scott; but the Germans want the cry of "boot and saddle" consumedly. However, the following is excellent in its way. In hall so bright with noble light, Old man, look not around thee!" He closed his eyne, he struck his lyre And down look'd every maiden. "The golden chain give not to me, "I sing as sings the bird, whose note Yet I'd ask one thing, an I might, The cup was brought. He drain'd its lees, Lo, when you prosper, think on me, As for this draught I thank you!" We intend to close the present Number with a very graceful, though simple ditty, which Goethe may possibly have altered from the Morlachian, but which is at all events worthy of his genius. Previously, however, in case any of the ladies should like something sentimental, we beg leave to present them with as nice a little chansonette as ever was transcribed into an album. THE VIOLET. A violet blossom'd on the lea, "O were I but the fairest flower If only for one little hour, That she might gather me- Lack-a-day! Up came the lass, THE DOLEFUL LAY OF THE NOBLE WIFE OF ASAN AGA. What is yon so white beside the greenwood? But his wife hangs back for shame, and comes not. When the anguish of his hurts was over, When the lady heard this cruel sentence, Then in terror ran her little daughters, And the wife of Asan turn'd to meet him; Silently the brother from his girdle When the woful lady saw the writing, Kiss'd she both her boys upon the forehead, Kiss'd on both the cheeks her sobbing daughters; But she cannot tear herself for pity From the infant smiling in the cradle! Rudely did her brother tear her from it, Deftly lifted her upon a courser, And in haste, towards his father's dwelling, Spurr'd he onward with the woful lady. Short the space; seven days, but barely sevenLittle space I ween-by many nobles Was the lady still in weeds of mourning- Far the noblest was Imoski's cadi; And the dame in tears besought her brother- Little reck'd the brother of her bidding, I, the youthful widow, greet thee fairly, Scarcely had the cadi read the letter, Jocundly they reach'd the princely mansion, These things mark'd the father, Asan Aga, Thus he spoke; and when the lady heard him, MY FIRST LOVE. A SKETCH IN NEW YORK. "MARGARET, where are you?" cried a silver-toned voice from a passage outside the drawing-room in which I had just seated myself. The next instant a lovely face appeared at the door, its owner tripped into the room, made a comical curtsy, and ran up to her sister. "It is really too bad, Margaret; pa' frets and bustles about, nearly runs over me upon the stairs, and then goes down the street as if 'Change were on fire. Ma' yawns, and will not hear of our going shopping, and grumbles about money--always money--that horrid money! Ah! dear Margaret, our shopping excursion is at an end for to-day!" Sister Margaret, to whom this lamentation was addressed, was reclining on the sofa, her left hand supporting her head, her right holding the third volume of a novel. She looked up with a languishing and die-away expression "Poor Staunton will be in despair," said her sister. "This is at least his tenth turn up and down the Battery. Last night he was a perfect picture of misery. I could not have had the heart to refuse to dance with him. How could you be so cruel, Margaret ?" "Alas!" replied Margaret with a deep sigh, "how could I help it? Mamma was behind me, and kept pushing me with her elbow. Mamma is sometimes very ill-bred." And another sigh burst from the overcharged heart of the sentimental fair one. "Well," rejoined her sister, "I don't know why she so terribly dislikes poor Staunton; but to say the truth, our gallopade lost nothing by his absence. He is as stiff as a Dutch doll when he dances. Even our Louisianian backwoodsman here, acquits himself much more creditably." And the malicious girl gave me such an arch look, that I could not be angry with the equivocal sort of compliment paid to myself. "That is very unkind, Arthurine," said Margaret, her cheeks glowing with anger at this attack upon the graces of her admirer. "Don't be angry, sister," cried Arthurine, running up to her, throwing her arms round her neck, and kissing and soothing her till she began to smile. They formed a pretty group. Arthurine especially, as she skipped up to her sister, scarce touching the carpet with her tiny feet, looked like a fairy or a nymph. She was certainly a lovely creature, slender and flexible as a reed, with a waist one could easily have spanned with one's ten fingers; feet and hands on the very smallest scale, and of the most beautiful mould; features exquisitely regular; a complexion of lilies and roses; a small graceful head, adorned with a profusion of golden hair; and then large round clear blue eyes, full of mischief and fascination. She was, as the French say, à croquer. "Heigho!" sighed the sentimental Margaret. "To think of this vulgar, selfish man intruding himself between me and such a noble creature as Staunton! It is really heart-breaking." "Not quite so bad as that!" said Arthurine. "Moreland, as you know, has a good five hundred thousand dollars; and Staunton has nothing, or at most a couple of thousand dollars ayear-a mere feather in the balance against such a golden weight.” "Love despises gold," murmured Margaret. "Nonsense!" replied her sister; “I would not even despise silver, if it were in sufficient quantity. Only think of the balls and parties, the fêtes and pic-nics! Saratoga in the summer-perhaps even London or Paris! The mere thought of it makes my mouth water." "Talk not of such joys, to be bought at such a price!" cried Margaret, quoting probably from some of her favourite novels. "Well, don't make yourself unhappy now," said Arthurine. "Moreland will not be here till tea-time; and there are six long hours to that. If we had only a few new novels to |