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 FROISSART.—Rondeau.

"Tis cool, and the shades are growing Along the tranquil Rhine;

The crest of the hill is glowing

Aloft in the red sunshine.

Up yonder sits a maiden

Bewitching, wondrous fair;

With gold is her garment laden,

She combs her golden hair.

Her golden comb is glancing,

Her hair is floating free,

And she sings, with a voice entrancing,

A marvellous melody.

It has lured the boatman 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 Lorelei.

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!

But ah, the maiden, in her speed,

The little violet did not heed,

Trod down the tender violet.

It sank and perished joyfully

'And though I die, yet still I die

Through her, through her;

Still at her feet I die !'

GOETHE.-Das Veilchen.