immortal lay,* and despairingly to arraign the avenging justice of heaven in suffering its retributive lightnings to sleep so long. An early grave spared his gentle spirit the afflicting pang. But while a single heart can beat with a prouder pulse, and glow with a holier fire, at the lofty contemplation of unsullied purity and unperverted genius-while the voice of Reason and of Truth can waken a responsive chord—while the great principles of our common nature sanction an universal homage at the shrine of moral and intellectual supremacy-so long shall the admiration of posterity linger over the poet's remains, and the voice of an enduring fame hallow the poet's tomb.

STOICULUS. U. C.

1. THE FISHER-AND RESHBERGER.

The poems of "The Fisher," and Reshberger,", of which translations are subjoined, are in widely different styles, neither of which is naturalized in this country. In the first, the author attempts to depict, partly by direct poetical description, partly by a kind of fanciful allegory, a mind subdued by vague and dreamy melancholy. The second imitates the rude energy and simplicity of the old Ballad. But while the poet affects the garb of his forefathers, and sings such a tale as they might have strung their harps to, he wears his disguise but lightly, delights in puzzling his readers to know whether he is in earnest or in jest, and, like one who tells a ghost-story to children, amuses himself with first exciting terrors, and then joining in a laugh at the credulity of those who were so easily deceived.

THE FISHER.

The waters sighed, the waters heaved;

A fisher on the brink

Sate gazing on his floating line,

His heart was like to sink.

And as he sate and sadly gazed,

He saw the floods divide,

And a maiden from the troubled wave
Stood streaming by his side.

She

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sang to him, she spoke to him;

Why dost thou thus delude,

With human wit and human guile,

To death my harmless brood?

*cf. Tacit. Annal. xv. c. 70. Lucan. Phars. L. iii. 635.

Ah! knew'st thou how the little fish
So sweetly dwell below,

Thyself wouldst quit the gloomy earth,
Their purer joys to know.

"Do not the Sun, the lovely Moon,
Bathe in the azure main?
Are they not twice as beautiful
When they return again?

Dost thou not see the deep, deep heav'n,
The yielding glittering blue?
And, lo! thy own form beckons thee
To bathe in boundless dew."

The waters sighed, the waters heaved;
His trembling feet they press;
His heart was moved, as tho' it were
A lover's fond caress.

She spoke to him, she sang to him;
The struggle soon was o'er;
Half forced, half won, he gently sank,

And he was seen no more.

W. v. GOETHE.

RESHBERGER.

Reshberger was a daring wight;

The merchant's dread, the traveller's fright.
In a deserted church he lay,

To pass the weary night away.

And when the midnight chimes were heard,

To seize his prey the youth prepared.

A merchant train, he understood,

At early dawn would cross the wood.

He had ridden but a little way,
Said he; "My squire! return, I pray :-
I left my gloves upon the bier

On which I sate; go fetch them here."

The squire came back so pale of hue :"The devil may fetch your gloves for you! A ghost is sitting on the bier;

My hair is still on end with fear.

Your pair of gloves has he put on,

And looks at them with a gaze of stone;
He strokes them down, he stretches them out,
In a way I tremble to think about."

Back to the church the youth did fly,
And with the ghost fought gallantly;
At length the ghost he conquered quite,
And won the gloves from the vanquished sprite.

Then spoke the ghost in an eager tone ;—

"If you will not give them for my own,
Oh! lend me for a single year,
The soft and pretty little pair."

"A single year I'll lend them you,
So shall I try if the devil's true;
I'm sure your hands, so skinny and thin,
Will not burst the stout deer's skin."

Reshberger proudly rode away;

He scoured the wood till morning grey,
The cock had crowed-when on the ground
He heard the tread of horse resound.

Oh! then the youth's proud heart beat high-
A sable troop came quickly by,

A mask was over every face-
The youth stept back a little space.

And one on foot, behind the throng,
Led a riderless steed along,

Saddled and bridled, and covered all
With sable weeds, like a funeral pall.
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Reshberger rode to the serving-man ;--
"Tell me," said he, "what train is yon?
Tell me, good friend, and tell with speed,
To whom belongs the riderless steed?"

"To my lord's most faithful servant here,
Reshberger called by far and near;
A year from hence Reshberger dies,
And then the horse shall be his prize."

He spoke, and followed the troop in black: The youth to his trusty 'squire came back"Woe's me! I must dismount" said he, "For things are going downhill with me.

If my horse is not too wild, my shield
And sword too heavy for thee to wield,
Take them, my friend-they're freely giv❜n—
Heav'n prosper thee, and thou serve Heav'n!"

At midnight, where Reshberger lies,
A sable 'squire was seen to rise;
He led a horse the graves among;
A rider's gloves at its saddle hung.

Reshberger ran from his grave so low-
He took the gloves from the saddle-bow;
The horse's back he bounded upon;
The grave-stone served for a stepping-stone.

This lay is meant for youths to read ;

That they may take of their gloves good heed,
And learn to leave the passers-by

At night, to journey quietly.

L. UHLAND.

ART. III.—MASSINGER-HIS LIFE AND RELIGIOUS

TENETS.

THE true dramatic literature of our country is comprehended within a very short interval, not extending, indeed, beyond the reigns of Elizabeth, James the First, and Charles the First. The breaking out of the great rebellion put a violent stop to its progress, at a period when, under the auspices of a munificent patron, it was displaying its brightest lustre ; and after the restoration of the monarchy, in 1660, arose the entirely different school of Dryden, Otway, &c.; the best productions of which are immeasurably inferior to the plays of the Shakspearian era. From that period to our own times the drama has never revived; and never was it in a greater state of degradation than in the present nineteenth century. The briefness of its reign, however, seems completely compensated by the number and brilliancy of the poets who adorned it: not to mention the mighty name which, in conjunction with that of Milton, has left the poetry of England unrivalled in the two greatest branches of poetry, alike in the drama and in the epopee; we have Jonson, Beaumont, Fletcher, Massinger; again, Middleton, Ford, Dekker, Cartwright, Rowley, Shirley, and many others of less name and inferior merit. Of the first class of these, all due honour (and perhaps more honour than is due) is paid to the classic Jonson; the loftiness of Beaumont, and the exquisite pathos