Faust. Haste, Margaret, haste!

For, if thou lingerest here,

We both shall pay it dear.

Marg. What, thou canst kiss no more?

Away so short a time as this,

And hast so soon forgot to kiss!

Why are my joys less ardent than they were?

Once in those folding arms I loved to lie,

Clung to that breast, and deem'd my heaven was there,

Till, scarce alive, I almost longed to die!

Those lips are cold, and do not move,

Alas! unkind, unkind!

Hast thou left all thy love,

Thy former love, behind?

Faust. Follow me! follow, Margaret! be not slow: With twice its former heat my love shall glow. Margaret, this instant come, 'tis all I pray.

Marg. And art thou, art thou, he, for certain, say? Faust. I am, come with me.

Marg. Thou shalt burst my chain,

And lay me in thy folding arms again.

How comes it, tell me, thou canst bear my sight? Know'st thou to whom thou bring'st the means of flight? Faust. Come, come!-I feel the morning breezes breath.

Marg. This hand was guilty of a mother's death! I drown'd my child! and thou can'st tell,

If it was mine, 'twas thine as well.

I scarce believe, though so it seem-
Give me thy hand-I do not dream-
That dear, dear hand. Alas, that spot!
Wipe it away, the purple clot!

What hast thou done? put up thy sword;
It was thy Margaret's voice implored.

Faust. Oh, Margaret! let the hour-be past;
Forget it, or I breathe my last.

Marg. No; you must live till I shall trace
For each their separate burial place.
You must prepare betimes to-morrow
Our home of sorrow.

For my poor mother keep the best;
My brother next to her shall rest.
Me, Margaret, you must lay aside,
Some space between, but not too wide.
On thy right breast my boy shall be,
Let no one else be there but he.
"Twere bliss with him in death to lie,
Which on this earth my foes deny,
'Tis all in vain-you will not mind,
And yet you look so good, so kind.

Faust. Then be persuaded-come with me.
Marg. To wander with you?

Faust. To be free.

Marg. To death! I know it-I prepare. I come, the grave is yawning there!

The grave, no further-'tis our journey's end.
You part. Oh! could I but your steps attend.

Faust. You can! But wish it, and the deed is done. Marg. I may not with you; hope for me is none ! How can I fly? they glare upon me still!

It is so sad to beg the wide world through,
And with an evil conscience too!

It is so sad to roam through stranger lands,
And they will seize me with their iron hands.
Faust. I will be with you.

THE FLOWER OF GNIDE.

THE following Ode is translated from the original Spanish of Garcilaso de la Vega, by Mr. J. H. Wiffen. "It is not often," to use a cant phrase of the present day, we meet with such poetry as this. The sentiments do honor to the original writer; the language does equal honor to the translator, and shews what the English language is capable of in the hands of a master. If this Ode were read to a foreigner, totally ignorant of the English language, he would perceive a strength, harmony, and fire, of which he could not trace a vestige in the sing-song lullabies, of which the bulk of modern poetry is composed. The words are happily selected, and still more happily disposed of, the vowel and consonant sounds being so judiciously blended with each other, that the language is nervous without being harsh, and musical without being effeminate. In the first stanza, almost every word is an echo to the sense, an effect which will always take place unconsciously, whenever the poet is truly inspired by his subject, particularly when an analogy exists between his ideas and any modification of sounds whatever. This Ode reminds us of Gray: it possesses all his classic elegance and chastity of manner, and has not a feature, in common, with any of our modern schools.-ED.

Had I the sweet resounding lyre,

Whose voice could in a moment chain
The howling winds' ungovern'd ire,
And movement of the raging main,
On savage hill the leopard rein,
The lion's ficry soul entrance,

And lead along with golden tones,

The fascinated trees and stones,

In voluntary dance.

Think not, think not, fair flower of Gnide,
It e'er should celebrate the scars,
Dust rais'd, blood shed, or laurels' dyed,
Beneath the gonfalon of Mars;
Or, borne sublime on festal cars,
The chief who to submission sank
The rebel German's soul of soul,
And forg'd the chains that now controul
The frenzy of the Frank.

No, no! its harmonies should ring,

In vaunt of glories all thine own;
A discord sometimes from the string,

Struck forth to make thy harshness known.
The finger'd chords should speak alone
Of beauty's triumphs, love's alarms;

And one who, made by thy disdain Pale as a lily cleft in twain, Bewails thy fatal charms.

Of that poor captive, too, contemn'd,
I speak-his doom you might deplore-
In Venus' galliot still condemn'd

To strain for life the heavy oar.
Through thee, no longer as of yore,
He tames the unmanageable steed,

With curb of gold his pride restrains, Or, with press'd spurs, and shaken reins, Torments him into speed.

Not now he wields, for thy sweet sake,

The sword in his accomplish'd hand; Nor grapples, like a poisonous snake, The wrestler, on the yellow sand; The old heroic harp, his hand,

Consults not now, it can but kiss
The amorous lute's dissolving strings,
Which murmur forth a thousand things
Of banishment from bliss.
Through thee, my dearest friend, and best,
Grows harsh, importunate, and grave;
Myself have been his port of rest,

From shipwreck on the yawning wave;
Yet, now so high his passions rave,
Above lost reason's conquer'd laws,

That not the traveller, ere he slays,
The asp, its sting, as he my face
So dread, or so abhors.

In snows, on rocks, sweet Flower of Gnide,
Thou wert not cradled, wert not born,
She who has not a fault beside,

Should ne'er be signaliz'd for scorn;
Else tremble at the fate forlorn
Of Anaxarete, who spurn'd

The weeping Iphis from her gate,
Who, scoffing long, relenting late,
Was to a statue turn'd.

Whilst yet soft pity she repell'd,

Whilst yet she steel'd her heart in pride, From her friezed window she beheld

Aghast, the lifeless suicide;

Around his lily neck was tied,
What freed his spirit from her chains;

And purchas'd, with a few short sighs,
For her immortal agonies,

Imperishable pains.