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Earth heard the call-her entrails rend;
From yawning rifts, with many a yell,
Mix'd with sulphureous flames, ascend
The misbegotten dogs of hell.

What ghastly huntsman next arose,
Well may I guess, but dare not tell;
His eye like midnight lightning glows,
His steed the swarthy hue of hell.
The wildgrave flies o'er bush and thorn,
With many a shriek of helpless woe;
Behind him hound, and horse, and horn,
And hark away, and holla, ho!
With wild despair's reverted eye,
Close, close behind he marks the throng,
With bloody fangs, and eager cry;
In frantic fear he scours along.

Still, still shall last the dreadful chase,
Till time itself shall have an end;
By day they scour earth's cavern'd space,
At midnight's witching hour ascend.

This is the horn, and hounds, and horse,
That oft the lated peasant hears :
Appall'd, he signs the frequent cross,
When the wild din invades his ears.

The wakeful priest oft drops a tear
For human pride, for human woe,
When at his midnight mass he hears
The infernal cry of holla, ho!

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

ILLUSIONS OF YOUTH.

FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER.

COMPANIONS of my earlier years,
For ever faithless will ye fly,

With all your train of hopes and fears,
Aspiring thoughts and warm desires,
Creative Fancy's magic fires

That warm'd my opening mind with distant scenes

Imagination's airy train,

Can nought your hasty flight retain?

Ah! never, never shall I see

Those visions of my early prime;

Swept by the ruthless storms of time, Lost in the ocean of eternity.

And are those suns for ever set in night,

[of joy?

That spread their lustre o'er my dawning day?
Those cherish'd visions of supreme delight
So oft invoked, no longer will they stay?
Each wish that fired my inexperienced mind,
And promised bliss and purity below,
Say, must it still in reason find a foe,
And leave a dull and dreary void behind?

As once the sculptured image fired
Pygmalion with an amorous flame,
Till breath and genial life inspired
The marble's cold and senseless frame;
So Nature to my opening soul

Appear'd in all her charms array'd,
Imagination lent her aid,

And mimic life inspired the wondrous whole.

Responsive to my ardent mind,

The magic influence spread o'er all; The tree, the flower, the waterfall, The forest wild, the lawn, the grove,

All seem'd, to life and sense refined, To echo back the song of boundless love.

Methought an influence divine,

Ruled with almighty power my mind, And urged to every great design,

Form'd by the love of humankind!

How vast, how fair appear'd this wondrous scene, When Hope at first its opening buds display'd! How dull and comfortless, how poor and mean, Has Reason since this mighty world portray'd!

When first life's journey I began,

Unburden'd by the load of care,

In thought with mighty strides I ran
To scenes that Fancy painted fair;
Already would my wishes fly

To many a great and arduous height,
Nought was too distant, nought too high,
To tempt my fancy's daring flight.
How easy thence to snatch the prize
It seem'd amid the glorious strife,
While danced before my dazzled eyes

The forms that glitter in the morn of life.
Methought, obedient to my call,
That Love his roses in my path had strown;
That Fortune, with her golden crown,

And Fame, that hides in stars his lofty crest,
And Truth, in never-fading sunbeams dress'd,

On me had doom'd their choicest gifts to fall.

The fairy scenes are flown,
The bright enchantment vanished in air
Faithless, for ever are they gone,
Unmark'd, unheard my prayer.

On hasty wing has Fortune urged her flight, Nor Knowledge grants me yet her gifts to share, While hid in clouds of doubt is Truth's immortal

I saw the palm of high renown

The undeserving brow adorn;

I look'd-and lo! for ever flown

[light.

The opening sweets of life's delicious morn!
And deeper still and darker grew

The shades that gather'd round my lonely way,
While mid the dull and dreary view
Hope scarcely shed a feeble doubtful ray.

Of all the visionary train

That Fancy erst was wont to raise,
O say, which faithful yet remain

To cheer the evening of my days?
Thou, Friendship, who alone hast power
To heal each deeply-rankling wound,
And cheer affliction's darkest hour-

Thou whom I early sought and found:
Employment, too, whose healing balm
Can still the passions' madding rage,
The tempest of the soul can calm,
And all life's ills assuage.

"Tis thou who, unappal'd by toil,
Canst to perfection bring each nobler aim,
And atoms upon atoms pile,

To form a system's mighty frame; Led by thy hand in life's declining day,

Hours, minutes, months, and years, will softly

steal away.

J. B.

STANZAS TO A VALLEY.

FROM THE GERMAN OF VON SALIS.

SWEET Valley, bounded by these pine-clad hills, Ye meads, just seen through yonder opening glade;

Ye darksome groves, ye softly murmuring rills, Thou cot, conceal'd beneath yon walnut's shade; From the high summit of this mount, bless'd scene, With transport does a wanderer hail thy charms; Mid Nature's beauties, tranquil and serene,

He seeks a refuge from the world's alarms. Oh, bid him welcome then, ye verdant steeps! Oh, bid him welcome then, ye flowery brakes; Lull'd in your bosom every sorrow sleeps,

While only mild and calm reflection wakes: My life's career is to contracted bounds

Confined, as thine, oh! seat of soft delight! And, as the end of yon meandering rounds, Its close is veil'd in darkness from my sight. Ambition's vessel, on a faithful shore

Here rests in peace, her anchor sweet content; Here curiosity is seen no more,

With prying eye exploring each event.

Malignity aims not her venom here

Against mild innocence' unguarded breast; Nor mid the aspens that are rustling near Does hissing scorn erect her serpent crest. Care seeks not, with o'erclouding brow and mind, To pry into the future's dreary waste; No place of rest can pallid envy find; Of vain remorse no footsteps can be traced.