"And there are haunts in that green land-oh! who

may dream or tell,

Of all the shaded loveliness it hides in grot and dell! By fountains flinging rainbow-spray on dark and glossy leaves,

And bowers wherein the forest-dove her nest untroubled

weaves;

The myrtle dwells there, sending round the richness of its breath,

And the violets gleam like amethysts, from the dewy moss beneath.

“And there are floating sounds that fill the skies thro' night and day,

Sweet sounds! the soul to hear them faints in dreams of heaven away!

They wander thro' the olive-woods, and o'er the shining seas,

They mingle with the orange-scents that load the sleepy breeze;

Lute, voice, and bird, are blending there;-it were a bliss to die,

As dies a leaf, thy groves among, my flowery Sicily!

"I may nt thus depart--farewell! yet no, my country!

no!

Is not love stronger than the grave? I feel it must be so!

My fleeting spirit shall o'ersweep the mountains and the main,

And in thy tender starlight rove, and thro' thy woods again.

Its passion deepens-it prevails !-I break my chain-I come

To dwell a viewless thing, yet blest-in thy sweet air, my home!"

And her pale arms dropp'd the ringing lyre,
There came a mist o'er her eye's wild fire,
And her dark rich tresses, in many a fold,
Loos'd from their braids, down her bosom roll'd.

For her head sank back on the rugged wall,

A silence fell o'er the warrior's hall;

She had pour'd out her soul with her song's last tone;

The lyre was broken, the minstrel gone! .

IVAN THE CZAR.

"Ivan le Terrible, etant dejà devenu vieux, assiégoit Novogorod. Les Boyards, le voyant affoibli, lui démandèrent s'il ne voulait pas donner le commandement de l'assaut à son fils. Sa fureur fut si grande à cette proposition, que rien ne put l'appaiser; son fils se prosterna à ses pieds; il le repoussa avec un coup d'une telle violence, que deux jours après le malheureux en mourut. Le père, alors au desespoir, devint indifferent à la guerre comme au pouvoir, et ne survécut que peu de mois à son fils."-Dix Annees d'Exil, par MADAME DE STAEL.

IVAN THE CZAR,

Gieb diesen Todten mir heraus. Ich muss
Ihn wieder haben!

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Trostlose allmacht,
Die nicht einmal in Gräber ihren arm
Verlängern, eine kleine Ubereilung
Mit Menschenleben nicht verbessern kann!

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He sat in silence on the ground,
The old and haughty Czar;
Lonely, tho' princes girt him round,

And leaders of the war:

He had cast his jewell'd sabre,
That many a field had won,

To the earth beside his youthful dead,

His fair and first-born son.

SCHILLER.