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THE COUNT OF GREIERS.

Then hand in hand departing, with dance and roundelay, Through hamlet after hamlet, they lead the Count away. They dance through wood and meadow, they dance across the linn,

Till the mighty Alpine summits have shut the music in.

The second morn is risen, and now the third is come; Where stays the Count of Greiers? has he forgot his home? Again the evening closes, in thick and sultry air,

There's thunder on the mountains, the storm is gathering there.

The cloud has shed its waters, the brook comes swollen

down;

You see it by the lightning-a river wide and brown.
Around a struggling swimmer the eddies dash and roar,
Till, seizing on a willow, he swings him to the shore.

"Here am I cast by tempests far from your mountain dell.
Amid our evening dances the bursting deluge fell.
Ye all, in cots and caverns, have 'scaped the waterspout,
While me alone the tempest o'erwhelmed and hurried out.

"Farewell, with thy glad dwellers, green vale among the rocks!

Farewell the swift sweet moments, in which I watched thy flocks!

Why rocked they not my cradle in that delicious spot,

That garden of the happy, where heaven endures me not?

THE COUNT OF GREIERS.

"Rose of the Alpine valley! I feel, in every vein,

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Thy soft touch on my fingers; oh, press them not again! Bewitch me not, ye garlands, to tread that upward track, And thou, my cheerless mansion, receive thy master back.”

SONG.

(FROM THE SPANISH OF IGLESIAS.)

ALEXIS calls me cruel;

The rifted crags that hold
The gathered ice of winter,
He says, are not more cold.

When even the very blossoms
Around the fountain's brim,
And forest walks, can witness
The love I bear to him.

I would that I could utter
My feelings without shame;
And tell him how I love him,
Nor wrong my virgin fame.

Alas! to seize the moment

When heart inclines to heart, And press a suit with passion,

Is not a woman's part.

SONG.

If man comes not to gather

The roses where they stand, They fade among their foliage; They cannot seek his hand.

13*

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SONNET.

(FROM THE PORtuguese of seMEDO.)

It is a fearful night; a feeble glare

Streams from the sick moon in the o'erclouded sky;
The ridgy billows, with a mighty cry,

Rush on the foamy beaches wild and bare;

No bark the madness of the waves will dare;

The sailors sleep; the winds are loud and high;

Ah, peerless Laura! for whose love I die,

Who gazes on thy smiles while I despair?
As thus, in bitterness of heart, I cried,

I turned, and saw my Laura, kind and bright,
A messenger of gladness, at my side :
To my poor bark she sprang with footstep light,

And as we furrowed Tago's heaving tide,

I never saw so beautiful a night.