OLD LITHUANIAN SONG.

TRANSLATED BY JOHN BOWRING, ESQ.

Przez lasy iodfowe

Przez lasy swierkowe.

THROUGH the pine trees' darksome woods,

Through the fir groves' solitudes,

On my piebald steed, I come,

Hurrying to her mother's home.

"Mother, hail !"-"Thou 'rt welcome, now,

To my cottage, lone and low."

"Tell me, mother! tell me where

I may seek my cherished fair ?"

"In yon chamber, dark and still,
Lies thy lovely maiden, ill,
Restless on the green-robed bed-
Hapless youth!" With gentle tread,
O'er the yard I swiftly glide,
Lingering on the threshold side.
Here I wiped my tears, and took
Her white hand, with gentlest look:-
"Lovely sufferer! flower of spring!
Time sweet remedy shall bring.”

"Call me, call me thine no more,
Soon life's short remains are o'er;
I within my grave shall lie,
Thou these flowing tears must dry :-
Thou wilt come and see me home,
To my solitary tomb.

Crowds of maidens shall be there,
Feeling joy, but feiguing care:
One, with rosy cheeks, shall be,
Even then, beloved by thee ;
She shall bear away thy kiss,—
What a bliss! oh, what a bliss!"

“AM I, TOO, IN ARCADIA?"

BY BERNARD BARTON.

WHAT minstrel's glance could coldly view
A scene which, to the poet's eye

And vivid fancy, might renew

The vanished dream of Arcady!

To me, with so much pastoral grace
This delicate creation teems,

That, while each varied charm I trace,
The golden age no vision seems.

Imagination's airy flight

Transports me far, to distant times, Bearing my thoughts, on pinions bright,

To simpler manners sunnier climes.

Methinks, amid such scenes as this,

Must they have dwelt the bards of old,

Whose numbers, of Arcadian bliss,

And Tempe's beauteous vale, have told.

In whose immortal song is shown, Graceful of form, and fresh of dye, What pencils such as CLAUDE's alone, From charms like nature's, can supply.

Delightful painter! though I feel
No envy of thy noble art,
Grateful, I own the proud appeal

Its glorious triumphs can impart.

Appeal-which, unto outward sense, Speaks in a language so refined; Triumphs-whose deeper eloquence Proclaim their mastery o'er the mind.

And, what could genius win from fate, Which thine to thee has failed to give? Living-such beauty to create!

And, dying-IN THY WORKS TO LIVE!

THE DREAM.

A TALE.

"WELL, Senhors! what say you? Is not this a fortunate termination of our day's adventure ?" exclaimed young Siegendorf, to his travelling companions. "A night spent in the pine-wood, on the summit of Melibocus, or upon the Felsen Meer, ‘Sea of Rocks,' in the valley below, would have been cheerless enough, after our fatiguing scramble over steep cliffs and rugged mountains. Push round the bottle, gallants, and do honour to the toast

The Rhine! the Rhine! be blessings on the Rhine!
Saint Rochus bless the land of love and wine!" "

Percy Fitzallan, the only Englishman of the party, had never visited the Continent before. Young, enthusiastic, and deeply read in German literature, his excursion to the Odenwold had been productive of the highest degree of gratification. From the heights of the Berg Strasse hills, his eyes had drank in a wide and lovely prospect, rendered doubly interesting from the associations connected

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