TRANSLATIONS.

FROM THE GERMAN.

THERE is an angel that abides
Within the budding rose ;

That is his home, and there he hides
His head in calm repose.

The rose-bud is his humble bower,

And yet he often loves to roam;
And wending through the path of Heaven,
Empurples all the track of even.

If e'er he sees a maiden meek,
He hovers nigh, and flings
Upon the modest maiden's cheek

The shadow of his wings.

Oh, lovely maiden, dost thou know
Why thy cheeks so warmly glow?

"Tis the Angel of the Rose,
That salutes thee as he goes.

FROM CATULLUS.

PASSER, DELICIE MEE PUELLA.

LITTLE sparrow, pretty sparrow,
Darling of my "winsome marrow,"
Plaything, playmate, what you will,
Tiny love, or naughty Phil,
Tempted, teased, to peck and hop
On her slender finger top,

Free to nuzzle and to rest

In the sweet valley of her breast;

Her wee, wee comfort in her sorrow's wane, When sinks to sleep the fever of her pain.

Little sparrow, come to me,

I can play as well as she,

And like her I would be fain

Thou could'st sport away my pain,

Dear to me as fruit of gold,

Which by crafty lover roll'd,

In that fleet maiden's path, untwisted all The quaint knots of her cincture virginal.

FROM CATULLUS.

LUGETE, O VENERES CUPIDINESQUE.

WEEP and wail, ye Cupids all,
That are pretty and but small;

Weep, ye pretty winged brothers,
Weep, ye pretty goddess mothers;
Every soul on earth that 's pretty,
Weep and wail for very pity.

He is dead, the pretty sparrow,
"winsome marrow,"

Darling of my

Dearer than her own eyes to her;
For so well the creature knew her,
She did not know her mother better;
Not a moment would he quit her,
Hopping hither, flitting thither,
Ever blest while he was with her;
Piping shrill and twittering clearly,
To her alone whom he loved dearly.
Now the dark way he is wending,
Whence they say is no ascending.

Ill luck be with thee, gloomy hollow,
That every pretty thing dost swallow,
To steal away my pretty sparrow!
Alas! poor bird-oh, deed of sorrow!
My sweet one's eyes, with tears so salt,
Are red and swollen; 'tis all thy fault.

SCHILLER'S TRANSLATION OF MACBETH.

IN Schiller's translation of Macbeth, in the 3rd Scene of the 1st Act, lines, of which the following are a free version, are substituted for the original Conference of the Weird Women, previous to the entrance of Macbeth and Banquo. It was manifestly the purpose of Schiller to discard the witch element altogether out of his "Weird Sisters," and to raise them to a level with the Eumenides and Parcæ. As a modern poet, writing for time present, and probably for the time to come, he might be right in omitting the killing swine, the sailor's thumb, the chestnut munching; but his idea is not in the spirit of ancient or modern demonology. If Schiller showed a more refined taste, Shakspeare exhibits a wider knowledge and a deeper philosophy.

First Witch. Sister, let's hear: what hast thou been doing?

Second. On the sea I've been busy at wrecking and ruin.

First. I saw a fisherman all in rags—

A very heap of rags was he,—

Yet he mended his nets and sang merrily,

And cared no more how the old world wags,

Than if he 'd the wealth of the sea in his bags.
At his work late and early,

The light-hearted churl, he

VOL. II.

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