A SERENADE. FROM THE FRENCH OF P. DUPONT. A LL roses are alike to me, Alike to me the myriad flowers, That May-time, in its sunny glee, Spreads on the valleys and the bowers; But in the garland of young girls, Which glows in fragrance to the sun, I worship, and I see but one, My pearl of flowers-my flower of pearls! Each planet and each wandering star, For all the lights that round us shine, All that a maddened brain romances, Are nothing, darling, to the glances From those soft, loving eyes of thine. The nightingale may sing and die, And still on that same linden-tree Before the first has ceased to be. Let all the sweet flowers fade away. The cheery light forsake the day, The stars fade in the heavens above; My star of gold, my passionate song, Should suffer half a moment's wrongMy pearl of flowers, my flower of pearls! Translation of Harry Curwen. ALL-ALL IS LOVE. FROM THE FRENCH OF VICTOR HUGO. O idealize our very dreams- Great Love for girdle proudly owns And in dim vistas of the past; While all that breathes with beauty laden For if God had not formed the maiden, Lying on beauty's bosom lightly The diamond sheds its choicest hue; The perfumed breezes from the south, The bud with rosy, opening mouth Have all their tale of love to tell; Then come, my sweet, since all is love, Come, darling, prove it with a kiss. Translation of Harry Curwen. MY MISTRESS. FROM THE FRENCH OF AUGUSTE BRIZEUX. N my mistress I loved naught at first but her beauty, IN The rosy fresh mouth to which smiles seemed a duty, The shoulder's contour smooth and shining like gold, And the lithe supple figure that the mirror adorning, Bent at each step, as under wings of the morning Bend willows o'er waves their own grace to behold. I knew then the beauty: naught to me it imported, Pardon if thou canst! Lo, at thy feet I cry, pardon ! More feeble than thou, woman, more feeble by far, And thy soul in its grandeur shone out like a star! O tears! O deep sighs! O love's mystic story! Women, to charm us, have two crowns as their glory, A visible beauty and a beauty unseen— Beings twice-gifted! souls all-powerful and tender! Our hearts and our wishes to them we surrender; Firm-bound in their fetters, we own them our queen. Translation of Toru Dutt. A THE PRAISE OF WOMAN. FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER. LL honor to women !—they soften and leaven The cares of the world with the roses of heaven The ravishing fetters of love they entwine; Their charms from the world's eye modestly veiling, The fire eternal of feelings divine. Man's wild force, in constant motion, And, on passion's stormy ocean, To and fro is tossed his mind. Peace his bosom visits never, As he heaps up scheme on scheme, But with her sweet look, so soft and enchaining, Summons him back to the regions of earth; The home of her mother has never forsaken- Man, the torrent sternly breasting, Spends his days in ceaseless strife; Never pausing, never resting, Wild he treads the path of life. All his plans to ruin bringing, Ne'er his changing wish grows cold, When destroyed, again upspringing, Like the Hydra's heads of old. But in a gentler sphere passing her hours, Selfishness and pride combining, Man's cold bosom ne'er can prove, But as when softly to Zephyr replying, Æolus' harp gently breathes forth its sighing, The soft soul of woman its sighs breathes forth too; At the sad tale of misery tenderly grieving, |