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GEOLOGY.

II.

In that small town was born a worthy wight, (His honest townsmen well approve his worth,) Whose mind has pierced the solid crust of earth, And roam'd undaunted in the nether night. His thought a quenchless incorporeal light, Has thrid the labyrinth of a world unknown, Where the old Gorgon time has turned to stone Long thorny snake and monstrous lithophyte. Long mayst thou wander in that deep obscure, And issuing thence, good sage, bring with thee still That honest face, where truth and goodness shine; Right was thy creed, as all thy life was pure. And yet if certain persons had their will,

The fate of Galileo had been thine.

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 PUELLE.

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, Darling of my "winsome marrow," 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.

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