Now, beyond Cumæ, pent below

Sea-cliffs of Sicily, o'er his rough breast rise

Ætna's pillars, skyward soaring, nurse of year-long

snow!

-Translation of F. D. MAURICE.

FROM THE THIRTEENTH OLYMPIC ODE.

The powers of Heaven can lightly deign boons that Hope's self despairs to gain :

And bold Bellerophon with speed won to his will the winged steed,

Binding that soothing spell his jaws around.

Mounting all mailed, his courser's pace the dance of war he taught to trace,

And, borne of him, the Amazons he slew,
Nor feared the bows their woman-armies drew,
Chimæra breathing fire, and Solymi-

Swooping from frozen depths of lifeless sky.
Untold I leave his final fall!

His charger passed to Zeus's Olympian stall!

Well, ere now, my song hath told

Of their Olympic victories;

And what shall be, must coming days unfold.

Yet hope have I-the future lies

With Fate-yet bless but Heaven still their line

Ares and Zeus shall all fulfil! For by Parnassus's frowning hill,

Argus, and Thebes, their fame how fair! And, oh, what witness soon shall bear,

In Arcady, Lycæus's royal shrine !

Pellené, Sicyon, of them tell-Megara, and the hallowed dell

Of Æacids; Eleusis; Marathon bright;

And wealthy towns that bask near Ætna's height;
Euboea's island. Nay, all Greece explore-
Than eye can see you'll find their glories more!
Through life, great Zeus, sustain their feet;
And bless with piety, and with triumphs sweet!

-Translation of F. D. MAURICE.

PINKNEY, EDWARD COATE, an American lawyer and poet, born in London, England, October 1, 1802; died in Baltimore, Md., April 11, 1828. His father, William Pinkney, was at the time of Edward's birth United States Minister to Great Britain. At the age of fourteen the boy became a midshipman in the United States Navy, but resigned his commission in 1824, and entered upon the practice of law. He was appointed Professor of Rhetoric and Belles-Lettres at the University of Maryland, in recognition of his poetic gifts. In 1825 he published Rodolph and Other Poems, and in 1827 The Marylander.

Edgar A. Poe wrote of Pinkney: "It was the misfortune of Mr. Pinkney to be born too far south. Had he been a New Englander it is probable that he would have been marked as the first of American lyrists by that magnanimous cabal which has so long controlled the destinies of American letters in conducting the thing called the North American Review." The spirit of colonialism which so long existed in the North toward England was felt in the South toward the North. Colonel J. Lewis Peyton, of Virginia, a thorough Southron and a man well qualified to speak on the subject of Southern sentiment, says: "In the South (as with you) nobody now thinks of the

birthplace of an American writer; we only wish to know what he has turned a sheet of white paper into with pen and ink. And I hardly think any but a man of diseased mind and imagination, like Poe, would ever have uttered such sentiments as he did as to Edward Coate Pinkney. The enlightened men of this region, as of yours, know no North or South in literature-only one grand republic of letters, in which every man standeth according to the soundness of his heart and the strength of his understanding."

A HEALTH.

I fill this cup to one made up of loveliness alone;
A woman of her gentle sex the seeming paragon;
To whom the better elements and kindly stars have

given

A form so fair, that, like the air, 'tis less of earth than heaven.

Her every tone is music's own, like those of morning

birds,

And something more than melody dwells ever in her

words;

The coinage of her heart are they, and from her lips each flows

As one may see the burdened bee forth issue from the

rose.

Affections are as thoughts to her, the measures of her hours;

Her feelings have the fragrancy, the freshness of young flowers;

And lovely passions changing oft, so fill her, she ap

pears

The image of themselves by turns-the idol of past

years.

Of her bright face one glance will trace a picture on the

brain;

And of her voice in echoing hearts a sound must long remain.

But memory such as mine of her so very much endears, When death is nigh, my latest sigh will not be life's, but hers.

I fill this cup to one made up of loveliness alone;
A woman of her gentle sex the seeming paragon.
Her health and would on earth there stood some
more of such a frame,

That life might be all poetry, and weariness a name.

A SERENADE.

Look out upon the stars, my love,

And shame them with thine eyes,
On which than on the stars above
There hang more destinies.
Night's beauty is the harmony

Of blending shades and light;
Then, lady, up-look out, and be
A sister to the night!

Sleep not! thy image wakes for aye
Within my watching breast.

Sleep not! from her soft sleep should fly
Who robs all hearts of rest.

Nay, lady, from thy slumbers break,

And make this darkness gay

With looks whose brightness well might make
Of darker nights a day.