of literature, and perfecting himself in that divine art whose brightest ornament he is; he immediately set out for England, deeming it base to be enjoying a learned ease abroad, when his friends were fighting for liberty at home. In like manner, I judge that it ill becomes the son of Colonel Hollis to abide in safety at Cambridge, when braver and better men are baring their bosoms to the death-shot." "You intend to join the army," said Alice, vainly endeavouring to conceal the alarm the thought occasioned.

borne. In that case, the members of so prominent a family as yours would meet with exile, if not with death. Besides, you are yet young, and may meet with some one, perhaps, among the daughters of the noble, who would better grace your father's halls."

"I fear not to affirm, that among all the daughters of England's nobles, there is no one of more true grace and dignity than Alice."

The old Puritan smiled at the enthusiasm of the young man.

"What says the Colonel to your project of

"Mine!"

"Yes, yours!" fixing his eye upon hers. "It is a solemn step, and I wish for the approbation and blessing of one whose favour I prize more highly than that of any human being. May I hope that››

The sentence was interrupted by the agitation of Alice. She was preserved from falling from her seat, only by the intervention of his arm. Before another word was spoken, her parents entered the parlour. Alice requested her father to assist her to her chamber. On leaving the apartment, she gave Hollis a look and smile which removed all doubt respecting his interest in her heart.

On Mr. Elliston's return to the parlour, Hollis made a brief statement of the object of his visit. "I saw your daughter," said he, "last summer, at Elliston Hall, and the esteem with which I was led to regard her, has caused me to make this hasty visit, previous to my committing myself to the chances of the field. It was not my purpose to say aught to her respecting my feelings and wishes, till I had first secured your approbation; I have been led to depart from that purpose, for which I crave pardon."

"I should expect nothing from the son of Colonel Hollis, but what is in accordance with the law of propriety and right. I was aware that you had seen my daughter, and have sometimes feared that an impression might have been made unfavourable to her peace."

"I saw her worth, and may have unconsciously manifested the admiration and regard it was adapted to awaken. The son of John Hollis would not seek to ensnare the affections of any one without the consent of those to whom she owes duty. What has taken place this evening was without design, and for it I hope to be pardoned."

"I know Colonel John Hollis well, and if, as I trust he is, the son be worthy of the sire, he is one to whom a parent may well be content to commit his daughter's happiness. But, young man, think well before you proceed further in this matter. The times are troublous.

"Pardon me, sir, you told me you knew my father."

"He has increased in power and consequence since I saw him."

"He remains unchanged, save that he has an intenser hatred of oppression, and a firmer daring to resist it. When he drew the sword, he threw away the scabbard."

Again a smile rested on the old man's lips. "Think well of the matter: you have my approbation so far as you have that of your honoured father."

"Thank you. In the morning, I will, if Alice will allow me, spend an hour with her; then I must hasten back to Cambridge." The lovers met at an early hour. No verbal explanation of the relation they sustained to each other seemed necessary.

"I must leave you, dearest, in an hour at most." "Must you return to the University so soon?" "I return to Cambridge, but not to the University. I have lately had an interview with one whom England will ere long recognise as her mightiest son, and I have, in consequence, with my father's permission, resolved to join a regiment of cavalry about to be raised. It is to consist wholly of noblemen." "Of noblemen!"

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'Yes, of noblemen by divine right. No one is to be received who cannot give an intelligent reason of the hope that is within him. It is to be composed of those who can pray as well as fight; who, while they wield the weapons of carnal warfare, can at the same time grasp the sword of the spirit. With such men, our leader is confident he can sweep away every opposing foe, and show in what way an end can be put to a war, which, if protracted, will make England a desert."

"Such a regiment the world has never seen. Who is to command it?"

"Oliver Cromwell, now a captain." A look of disappointment clouded her transparent features. He guessed the thought that was passing in her mind.

(To be continued.)

With his disciples, when his course on earth
Drew near a close. It was a moonless night,
And heavily he drooped, as one who bears
An inward burden. Drear Gethsemane
Gave him no welcome, as his weary feet
Paused at its portal. Almost it might seem
That Nature, with prophetic eye, foresaw
The sufferings of her Lord. With its rough cones,
The terebinth did tremble, and the buds
That Spring had early wakened, hid their heads
Again in their turf-cradles, tearfully.

A horror of great darkness fell on Him
Who wrought the world's salvation.

Unto those,

Who at His call had left the fisher's coat,
And the receipt of custom, and had shared
His daily bread, he turned; for in the hour
Of bitter anguish, sympathy is dear,
Even from the humblest.

Unto them, He turned,

But they were gone,-gone!-and He searching found
That heavy-eyed and self-indulgent band

Stretched out, in sleep supine. They took their rest,
While He, who for their sakes had toiled and taught,
And healed their sickness and supplied their need,
And walked at midnight on the raging sea,
Strove with the powers of darkness. Rising tides
Of grieved, untiring, unrequited love
Mixed with the question from those lips divine,

"Could ye not watch one hour?"

Then, He withdrew

Again, and prayed. The mournful olives bent,
Weaving their branches round him tenderly,

And sighed and thrilled, thro' all their listening leaves.
Paler than marble was the brow that pressed

The matted grass, leaving the blood-print there,
Yea, the red blood-print.

Oh Gethsemane!
Draw closer thy drear veil. I would not see
My Saviour's agony.

Yet not alone

Passed that dread hour, tho' His disciples slept.
There was a pitying spirit of the skies,
Who wept and wondered, and from odorous wings
Shed balm ambrosial on the sufferer's head.

Would that I knew his name, who thus did stand
Near the Redeemer, when both earth and heaven
Forsook His fainting soul. There was a sound
Like rushing pinions of a seraph host;
But wildering awe, and unsolved mystery
Enchained them in mid-air, and only one
Came down to comfort Him.

Thou who didst bear
Unuttered pangs for an ungrateful race,
Remember us, when desolate, and lone,
In our Gethsemanes, we agonize,
Imploring God to take the cup away,
And shrinking, in our poverty of faith,
To add the words, that make His will, our own.
Thou, who amid Heaven's bliss, forgettest not
The weakness of the clay Thou once didst wear,
Nor how the shafts of pain do trouble it,
Send us a strengthening angel, in our need;
Oh! be Thyself that angel.

THE poetry of this poem has been made familiar to English readers rather by the Outlines of Retzsch and the music of Romberg, than by any translation that has yet been published. The attempt to translate this, or any genuine poem, from one language to another is a very formidable one. In the present case, translators, despairing apparently of everything that might be pronounced success, seem to have satisfied themselves with a very remote approximation to the beauty of the original. They appear to have been thankful to get through with the work anyhow. Although not without their felicities, yet in no one of the four translations which we have seen-two published in this country and two in Englanddoes the design seem to have been cherished of preserving in the English the varied music of the German. The double rhymes have been continually neglected. In the following translation, while the closest adherence has been attempted to the letter, the aim has been to convey some idea of the music of the original.

As the present translator, in presuming thus to pass judgment on his predecessors, betrays perhaps an undue appreciation of his own success, he wishes to remark, ex gratiâ modestiæ, that, as one of the greatest perils to a translator of poetry arises from the excitement, in the course of his labour, of his own poetical faculty, whereby he is constantly liable to mistake, amidst the thick-coming fancies which the original starts, one of his own vivid images for the thought of the poet, it follows that he, who has barely enough of the poetical sentiment to enable him to have some appreciation of the work he undertakes to translate, may, on this account, have a better chance of success than others of a higher poetical temperament.

It is observable that the latter part of the Song of the Bell was composed by the lurid light of the old French Revolution, from which so many of the first men of the time, Burke, for instance, like Schiller, "shrunk almost blinded by the glare."