ful. It is divided into three parts, The Return Home, The Hartz-Journey, and The Baltic. In 1831 Heine went to Paris, where he spent the remainder of his life, returning to Germany for only one or two short visits to his mother. For the next ten years he published prose only, writing for newspapers on politics and literature. He wrote French and German with equal fluency. In 1833 appeared his History of Modern Literature in Germany, afterward republished under the title of The Romantic School. The Salon, a series of essays, was published in four volumes between 1834 and 1840, and a long essay on the Women of Shakespeare in 1839. His next poetical work was Atta Troll, a Summer Night's Dream (1841), purporting to be the observations and reflections of a dancing bear on his travels. In 1835 he had married, and in 1843 he made his last journey to Germany, to visit his mother. A volume of New Poems, containing Germany, a Winter's Tale, in which many of his countrymen are mercilessly satirized, appeared in 1844.

In 1847 he was attacked with a disease of the spine, and his life thenceforth was one of excruciating suffering. For eight years he was, as he says, "in a state of death without its repose, and without the privileges of the dead, who have no need to spend money, and no letters or books to write." With both eyelids paralyzed, his lower limbs withered, his body filled with racking pain, he retained his mocking good-humor to the last, and in 1850 and 1851 composed a singular poetical work, Romances, divided into Histories, Lamentations, and Hebrew Melodies. A volume of Latest Poems was written three years afterward. His last work was

a translation into French of some of the poems in nis Book of Songs. During his years of agonizing pain he kept his mother in ignorance of what he suffered, sending her cheerful letters to the last, making her believe that he employed an amanuensis because he had a slight affection of the eyes.

Throughout his life Heine appeared as a mocker. The bitterest irony pervades his writings. Nothing is sacred. His beautiful thoughts and tender feelings are sometimes followed by a sneer. Yet his poems are characterized by singular beauty of feeling and expression. He seems to have combined two natures always struggling for mastery.

In his will he requested that no religious rites should be observed at his funeral. Yet this, he added, was not the mere freak of a free-thinker. "For the last four years," said he, "I have cast aside all philosophical pride, and have again felt the power of religious truth."

THE MOUNTAIN ECHO.

At sad slow pace across the vale

There rode a horseman brave:

"Ah! travel I now to my mistress's arms
Or but to the darksome grave?"
The echo answer gave:
"The darksome grave!"

And farther rode the horseman on,
With sighs his thoughts express'd:
"If I thus early must go to my grave
Yet in the grave is rest."

The answering voice confess'd:
"The grave is rest!"

Adown the horseman s furrow'd cheek
A tear fell on his breast:

"If rest I can only find in the grave,

For me the grave is best."
The hollow voice confess'd:

"The grave is best."

-Translation of E. A. BOWRING.

SONGS OF SPRING.

Day and night alike the springtime
Makes with sounding life all-teeming ;
Like a verdant echo can it

Enter even in my dreaming.

Then the birds sing yet more sweetly
Than before, and softer breezes
Fill the air, the violet's fragrance
With still wider yearning pleases.

E'en the roses blossom redder,
And a child-like golden glory
Bear they, like the heads of angels
In the picture of old story.

And myself aimdst fancy

Some sweet rightingale, whien singing
Of my love to those fair roses,

Wondrous songs my vision bringing—
Till I'm waken'd by the sunlight,
Or by that delicious bustle
Of the rightingales of springtime
That before my window rustie
Stars with golden feet wandering
Yonder, and they gently weep
That they cannot earth awakeh;
Who in night's arms is asleep.

List'ning stand the silent forests,
Every leaf an ear doth seem!
How its shadowy arm the mountain
Stretcheth out, as though in dream.
What call'd yonder? In my bosom
Rings the echo of the tone.
Was it my beloved one speaking,
Or the nightingale alone?

-Translation of E. A. BOWRING.

LORE-LEI.

I know not whence it cometh
That my heart is oppressed with pain,
A tale of the past enchaineth

My soul with its magical strain.

"Tis cool and the daylight waneth,
The Rhine so peacefully flows;
And, kissed by the sunbeam of even,
The brow of the mountain glows.

The fairest of maidens sitteth
In wondrous radiance there,
Her jewels of gold gleam brightly,
She combeth her golden hair.

With a golden comb she combs it,
And sings so plaintively;

O potent and strange are the accents
Of that wild'melody.

The boatman in yon frail vessel
Stands spell-bound by its might;
He sees not the cliffs before him,
He gazes alone on the height,

Methinks the waves will swallow
Betli boat and boatman anɔn;
And this with her sweet singing..
The Lore Lei hath done.

Translation of A. BASKERVille.

THE FISHER'S COTTAGE.

We sat by the fisher's cottage,
And looked at the stormy tide;
The evening mist came rising,
And floating far and wide.

One by one in the lighthouse
The lamps shone out on high;

And far on the dim horizon
A ship went sailing by.

We spoke of storm and shipwreck-
Of sailors, and how they live;
Of journeys 'twixt sky and water,
And the sorrows and joys they give.

We spoke of distant countries,
In regions strange and fair,
And of the wondrous beings

And curious customs there;

Of perfumed lamps on the Ganges,

Which are launched in the twilight hour;
And the dark, and silent Brahmins,
Who worship the lotos flower.

Of the wretched dwarfs of Lapland-
Broad-headed, wide-mouthed, and small-
Who crouch round their oil-fires, cooking,
And chatter and scream and bawl.

And the maidens earnestly listened,
Till at last we spoke no more;
The ship like a shadow had vanished,
And darkness fell deep on the shore.
-Translation of CHARLES G. LELAND.

PEACE.

High in the heavens there stood the sun
Cradled in snowy clouds,

The sea was still,

And musing I lay at the helm of the ship,
Dreamily musing-and half in waking
And half in slumber, I gazed upon Christ,
The Saviour of man.

In streaming and snowy garment

He wander'd giant-great,

Over land and sea;

His head reach'd high to the heavens,
His hands he stretch'd out in blessing

Over land and sea;

And as a heart in his bosom

Bore he the sun,