See we her bosom with sympathy heaving

Her melting eye sparkling with heavenly dew.

Man, imperious, stern, insulting,

Knows no law save that of might;
Scythians wave their swords exulting-
Persians tremble in affright,
Furious passions raging wildly

Fiercely struggle day by day;
And, where Charis governed mildly,
Eris now asserts her sway.

But, with her eloquence winning, yet yielding,
Woman, the scepter of love gently wielding,
Quenches the smoldering embers of strife;
Each ling'ring emotion of hatred effaces,
Compels the late foes to unite their embraces,
Rivets the transient pleasures of life.

Translation of Edgar A. Bowring.

Ah, yes! propitious was the hour
When thus he showed compassion!
The coy rebellious stuff he worked
In true artistic fashion.

Yes, woman's body is, 'mong songs,
The song most sweet and tender,
And wondrous strophes are her limbs,
So snowy white and slender.

And then her neck, her glistening neck-
Oh, what a godlike notion !-
Where the main thought, her little head,
Rocks with a graceful motion.

The song has flesh, ribs, hands, and feet,
No abstract poem this is!
With lips that rhyme deliciously
It smiles and sweetly kisses.

True poetry is breathing here,
Grace shines in each direction;
The song upon its forehead bears
The stamp of all perfection.

I'll praise thee, Lord, and in the dust
Will humbly kneel to show it;
Bunglers are we, compared with thee,
Thou glorious heavenly Poet.

Before the splendor of thy song
I'll bow in adoration,
And to its study day and night

Pay closest application.

Yes, day and night I'll study it,

No loss of time admitting;

So shall I soon with overwork
Be thinner than befitting.*

Translation of Edgar A. Bowring.

Thy sweet eyes gleam tenderly,

Like soft moonbeams o'er the sea;

Lights of rosy harmony

O'er thy red cheeks wander free.

From thy small mouth, full of glee,

Rows of pearls peep charmingly ;

But thy bosom's drapery

Veils thy fairest jewelry.

Pure love only could it be

That so sweetly thrilled through me,

When I whilome gazed on thee,

Darling maid so fair to see.

Translation of Edgar A. Bowring.

* One verse is here omitted from this poem; a liberty that has been found necessary in a few other instances. Whatever may be the literary value of certain outspoken passages, nothing can be admitted into this volume that fastidious women would not be willing to hear spoken in any company.-Editor.

WOMEN.

FROM THE SPANISH OF CRISTOVAL DE CASTILLEJO.

H

OW dreary and lone

The world would appear,

If women were none !

'Twould be like a fair,

With neither fun nor business there.

Without their smile,

Life would be tasteless, vain, and vile;

A chaos of perplexity;

A body without a soul 'twould be;

A roving spirit, borne

Upon the winds forlorn ;

A tree without or flowers or fruit ;

A reason with no resting-place,
A castle with no governor to it ;

A house without a base.
What are we, what our race,

How good for nothing and base,
Without fair woman to aid us :

What could we do, where should we go,
How should we wander in night and woe,
But for woman to lead us?

How could we love, if woman were not:

Love, the brightest part of our lot;

Love, the only charm of living;

Love, the only gift worth giving?

Who would take charge of your house-say, who

Kitchen, and dairy, and money-chest

Who but the women, who guard them best

Guard, and adorn them too?
Who like them has a constant smile,
Full of peace, of meekness full,

When life's edge is blunt and dull,
And sorrow and sin, in frowning file,
Stand by the path in which we go
Down to the grave through wasting woe?
All that is good is theirs, is theirs-
All we give, and all we get;
And if a beam of glory yet
Over the gloomy earth appears,

O, 'tis theirs! O, 'tis theirs!—

They are the guard, the soul, the seal

Of human hope and human weal;

They-they-none but they;

Woman-sweet woman!-let none say nay!

Translation of Edgar A. Bowring.

SYLVIA'S SMILE.

FROM THE SPANISH OF FRANCISCO DE BORJA Y ESQUILACHE.

W

HEN

bright and gay the waters roll

In crystal rivers to the sea,

'Midst shining pearls, they take, my soul,
Their sweetest, loveliest smile from thee;
And when their dimpling currents flow,
They imitate thy laughing brow.

When Morning from his dusky bed

Awakes with cold and slumbering eye,

Ere yet he wears his tints of red,

He looks to see if thou art nigh