RONDEAU.

RETURN, my friend; too long is thy delay;
There is no happiness when thou’rt away.
I pine for thee throughout the weary day.
Return, my friend; too long is thy delay.

For there is none, save thee, who can or may,
Till thy return, my languishing allay ;
Return, my friend; too long is thy delay;
I pine for thee throughout the weary day.

JEHAN FROISSARI.-Rondeau. THE LORËLEI.

I AM weary and heavy-hearted,

And cannot the reason find;
A tale of the days departed
Will never away

from
my

mind.

'Tis cool, and the shades are growing

Along the tranquil Rhine;

Her golden comb is glancing,

Her hair is floating free,
And she sings, with a voice entrancing,

A marvellous melody,

a

It has lured the boatinan already,

And a spell is o'er him thrown; He sees not the driving eddy,

He gazes on her alone :

Till, round in the whirlpool swinging,

The boat and boatman fly;
And that is what came of the singing

Of the song of the Lorëlei.

HEINE.—Die Lorelei.

THE VIOLET.

A VIOLET in the mead had grown,
Bowed in itself, and all unknown;
It was a darling violet.
With merry heart, and glances bright,

A shepherdess came tripping light,
Along, along,
The mead along, and sang.

Ah, thought the violet, that I were

The fairest flower beyond compare,

And not a simple violet,
That she might pluck me-to be pressed,
And lie, and languish, on her breast

But one, but one,

One half-an-hour long !