Una.

It is not late. Look where the western sky
Retains as yet a long, bright, golden stripe,
The footsteps of departed day. "T were wrong
To close one's eyes when such a beauteous world
Lays forth her prodigality of charms;

Fair, at all times, but fairest surely now.
Breathes there not at this hour a sweeter balm
Wherever the winds go? Methinks the flowers
Send up their richest odours when the dew,
The heavy summer dew, weighs down their heads,
And stars are lighting up a paler day,

And fresher breezes lift their leaves! so cool!
So sweet! bearing the tale which one wild flower
Tells, in its gladness, to another! Hark!
Heard you that note? It was the prelude light
To such a wild and soul-beguiling strain,
As well may serenade the moon and stars
On such a night! It was the nightingale,
Whose little heart is music, sending forth
Her first faint symphony. But listen now!-
Oh, lady! surely now the blest should wake
To praise the hand which blesses them, and those
Who keep Grief's vigils should come forth to gaze,
To pray, and be consoled!

Ilrica.

Alas! alas!

There is a gloom, which even day's bright beams
Can never dissipate! Moonlight, and stars,
And dewy flowers, and those unearthly strains
Of music too, all seem to thee most sweet;
Why should they not? thy careless soul is free
To watch and worship them; to mark apart
Each separate beauty, and to dwell on all
Till it is filled and running o'er with joy
And admiration. The deep sense of beauty,
And bliss, is exquisite in thy young heart;
It may be blunted yet,-as mine hath been.
For I was one like thee. But, oh! the eyes,
Dim with such griefs as mine, behold no more
Aught glad or beautiful,-the memory
Of sorrow darkens all they rest upon.
Kind friend! my grief I know must weary you.
Leave me, dear Una!

Una.

Not in solitude,

To nurse your woes with tears. Chide hence this grief.

And leave you thus desponding? let me stay,
And weep with you.

Пrica.

My boy, my darling sleeps.

I sat by him until his little tongue

Grew weary telling all his childish thoughts;
And, as the accents died upon his lips,

His head sunk softly down, his soft blue eyes
Closed, and the wind that from the casement came
Wantonly flung the bright hair o'er his cheek,
Half hiding their fresh roses.

Still I sat

Holding his small, soft hand, and bending o'er
To mark how regular his little breast

Heaved in his deep, sweet, tranquil sleep. Una!
I almost envied him!

Beneath a Roman sword.

Una.

And yet he sleeps

Ilrica.

Cruel! cruel!

To call me back to misery. Alas!

I only thought how beautiful he looked;

How like were those long lashes to his sires;
How like-

Una.

Nay, lady

Пrica.

Hush. Let me go on.

Let me unload my heart; or rather, go

I sure, at least, may weep alone. Widowed!

A mother, too!

Una.

A mother now.

And yet

Thou knowest what may chance before the moon,

456

That has not reached her zenith yet, sinks down
Where sunk the sun but now.

Пrica.

Distress me not.

Is this thy kindness, thus to persevere
In telling o'er the woes I would forget?

Una.

My Queen! it is. The truest kindness oft
Is that which wears the garb of cruelty.

And think'st thou that thy grief could pleasure me?
And if I could, would I not lay me down
Gladly, and die, so that thy tears might cease?
Have I not followed thee through trial and pain?
Have I not suffered, wept, and prayed with thee?
Did not my voice first tell the blessed news
When the saints came to teach the road to life?
"T was I who brought the Apostle to your gate;
And thou, assenting to the truths he taught,
Didst thank me, and didst bid me be thy friend.
And now I would be so.

Ilrica.

Say on my friend.

My harshest and my truest friend!

Una.

I will.

Had you still chidden me, and bade me hence,

I should have braved your frown,-to reach your heart.
To save his life, your boy must hence!

Ilrica.

Again!

Again that hateful subject! Hear me, Una.
I am his mother; never mother yet
Gave from her arms her own, her only child,
Knowing that danger hung around his steps;
Knowing his course must be across the waves,
His friendless home on far and foreign shores,
His nurse a stranger, and his language strange,
While in her clinging arms there yet was strength
To hold and strain him to her bosom! Force-
Force alone-

My Queen! I am not wild.

It is thyself. Presumptuous as I seem

I only live for thee and thine. Alas!

I once had other hopes-they were a dream-
A dream most wild,-and like a dream, they passed..
You understand me not ;-'t is better so.

I was about to say,-I know not what.
Pardon, my gracious Queen, th' infirmity

That springs from secret woes, cherished and nurst,
Or rather struggled with, alone.

Ilrica.

Una!

My friend must that high spirit, too, be crushed?
Can that light heart know other woes than mine?
And woes, too, that I must not share?

Una.

It hath;

And almost broke beneath them,-but 't is over;
I did not claim thine ear, my gracious Queen,
That I might prate of trials now subdued.
True, I have wrestled with them oft and oft,

And smiled, and bade thee smile, when all the while
My heart was breaking. I have done-no more-
Ask me no more. The convalescent feels

His keenest pangs return to hear them named,-
And I my former weakness while I speak.

CRITICAL NOTICES.

Deutsches Lesebuch für Anfänger. German Reader for the Use of Beginners. Cambridge. 1826. pp. 252.

SUCH an introduction to the study of the German language as is furnished by the work before us, was much needed. An acquaintance with this language is becoming daily more important to every man who wishes to keep pace with the progress of knowledge. In all its departments, German students are the most assiduous labourers, and, as a body, furnish the largest contributions to its stock. The literary treasures of this nation are vast, varied, and rapidly multiplying, and demand the attentive study of every one who desires to excel in any branch of intellectual labour. The metaphysician will find it the very home of profound speculation, the native land of intellectual, as truly as of physical gymnastics. For the lover of natural science, the patient research of the German character has accumulated a rich storehouse of facts. The classical scholar has been long familiar with its massy erudition, and, more lately, with its deep investigation into the spirit of antiquity. The professional man, the student of law, physic, or theology, may satisfy the keenest appetite with the fruits of German toil. The lover of belles lettres will here meet with a fresh and beautiful literature, formed by, and breathing the spirit of the age, exulting in the consciousness of vigour and progress, not made up of beautiful relics, but of the finished productions of modern art, equally splendid, and better suited to the wants and the taste of the times. New, rich, and rapidly increasing, it opens a wide and important field to the scholar of every nation, more especially to the nations of German origin. The English and their American descendants find in it much that is akin to their old modes of expression, of thought, and of feeling. Their domestic manners, language, and religion all tend to assimilate them with the German character, rather than with that of the South of Europe. The attentive study which the Germans have bestowed upon English literature, and the copious infusion of its spirit into their own, increase its interest to men whose taste has been formed upon the classics of England.

Esteeming the literature of Germany, as we do, we are glad to see the study of it becoming more and more common among our countrymen. The book before us is valuable to beginners, supplying a deficiency which has been hitherto much felt, the want of a proper collection of reading-lessons. The few German books within the reach of the greater part of young students here, afford them little opportunity of selecting those most suited to their wants,