Long they conversed there, singing the tender effusions of Stolberg,

Buerger, and Hagedorn too, and of Claudius, Gleim, and Jacobi:

Sang, "O beautiful, wondrous is God's creation," with Hölty,

Who could smile upon death; and lamented thy early removal,

Sweetest of bards!

*

All now feasted, reclining at ease, sitting close by each other,

Under the wide-spreading beech, with the soft thick moss underneath them.

Lower the sun now sunk, on the pendulous foliage pouring

Glittering rays; oft forcing the sitters to shift their position.

Scarcely a reed even stirred, and the lake was as smooth as a mirror:

Ceaseless the grasshoppers chirped, and the gay birds ́ Iwarbled in concert:

Bitterns far in the distance, and lapwings; nearer the cuckoo,

Blackbirds, thrushes, and finches, and bright yellow hammers and yonder,

:

Down in the cornfields, landrails craiked; embowered in elm-trees

Wood-pigeons cooed, whose note with the blue-winged jay's intermingled.

Johann Heinrich Voss. Tr. J. Cochrane.

Eylau.

THE BATTLE OF EYLAU,

FOUGHT in Prussian Poland, between the allied Prussian and Russian armies, against the French, under Napoleon, February, 1807. "Never was a spectacle so dreadful as the field of battle presented on the following morning. Above fifty thousand men lay, in the space of two leagues, weltering in blood. The wounds were, for the most part, of the severest kind, from the extraordinary quantity of cannon-balls which had been discharged during the action, and the close proximity of the contending masses to the deadly batteries, which spread grape at half-musket-shot through the ranks." ALISON'S Europe.

NAST and furious falls the snow;

FAST

Shrilly the bleak tempests blow,

With a sound of wailing woe,
O'er the soil;

Where the watch-fires blaze around,
Thick the warriors strew the ground,
Each in weary slumber bound,
Worn with toil.

Hearken to the cannon-blast!

Drums are beating fierce and fast :
Fierce and fast the trumpets cast
Warning call.

Form the battle's stern parade,

Charge the musket, draw the blade;
Square and column stand arrayed,
One and all.

On they rush in stern career,
Dragoon and swart cuirassier;

Hussar-lance and Cossack-spear
Clanging meet!

Now the grenadier of France
Sinks beneath the Imperial lance;
Now the Prussian horse advance,
Now retreat.

Davoust, with his line of steel,
Storms their squadrons till they reel,
While his ceaseless cannon-peal
Rends the sky.

'Gainst that crush of iron hail
Naught may Russia's ranks avail;
Like the torn leaves in the gale,
See, they fly!

Through the battle's smoky gloom
Shineth Murat's snowy plume:
Fast his cohorts to their doom
Spur the way.

Platoff, with his desert horde,
Is upon them with the sword;
Deep his Tartar-spears have gored
Their array.

With his thousands, Augereau

Paints with blood the virgin snow: Low in war's red overthrow

Sleep they on!

Helm and breastplate they have lost, Spoils that long shall be the boast

Of the savage-bearded host.
Of the Don.

Charge, Napoleon! Where be those
At Marengo quelled thy foes;
Crowning thee at Jena's close
Conqueror?

At this hour of deadly need
Faintly thy old guardsmen bleed;
Vain dies cuirassier and steed,
Drenched with gore.

Sad the frosty moonbeam shone
O'er the snows with corses strown,
Where the frightful shriek and groan
Rose ainain :

Loud the night-wind rang their knell;
Fast the flaky horrors fell,

Hiding in their snowy cell
Heaps of slain !

Many a year hath passed and fled
O'er that harvest of the dead:
On thy rock the Chief hath sped,
St. Helene!

Still the Polish peasant shows
The round hillocks of the foes,

Where the long grass rankly grows,

Darkly green.

Isaac Maclellan.

Frankfort.

ON ENTERING FRANKFORT AFTER A LONG TOUR THROUGH SWITZERLAND.

WHAT sense of loneliness comes o'er the soul,

W sinking of spirits,

The kindly-courteous country, and perceives
The first sure indications of his goal,
The densely peopled city; when the roll
Of drums is heard in dry and dusty streets,
What time the huge cathedral bell repeats
The evening hour, with solemn-sounding toll!
Where 'mong the crowds that pour in at the gate,
There's none we care for, none for us who care!
How different from the scenes we left of late,
Where every peasant had a friendly air,

And where the trees, to touch us, wont to extend
Their branches out, like some familiar friend!

James Cochrane.

GOETHE'S MONUMENT AT FRANKFORT-ON THE-MAIN, 1821.

YOOD German men, maids, matrons, pray give ear!

G Collect subscribers with the utmost speed,

The worthy folk of Frankfort have agreed

To build a monument to Goethe here.

66

"At fair time," think they, this will make it clear To foreign traders that we 're of his breed,

That 't was our soil that nurtured such fair seed,