t is pleasant, at eve or at noon,
To gaze on the sea and its far-winding bays,
When ting'd with the light of the wandering moon,
Or red with the gold of the midsummer rays.

But, torrent, what is it? what is it?--behold
That lustre as nought but a bait and a snare,
What is the summer sun's purple and gold
To him who breathes not in pure freedom the air.

Abandon, abandon, thy headlong career--
But downward thou rushest--my words are in vain,
Bethink thee that oft-changing winds domineer
On the billowy breast of the time-serving main.

Then haste not, O torrent, to yonder dark sea,
For there thou must crouch beneath tyranny's rod;
Here thou art lonely, and lovely, and free,--
Loud as a thunder-peal, strong as a god.

RUNIC VERSES.

O the force of Runic verses,
O the mighty strength of song
Cannot baffle all the curses
Which to mortal state belong.

Slaughter'd chiefs, that buried under
Heaps of marble, long have lain,
Song can rend your tomb asunder,
Give ye life and strength again.

When around his dying capture,
Fierce, the serpent draws his fold,
Song can make him, wild with rapture,
Straight uncoil, and bite the mould.

When from keep and battled tower,
Flames to heaven upward strain,
Song has o'er them greater power,
Than the vapours dropping rain.

It can quench the conflagration
Striding o'er the works of art;
But nor song nor incantation
Can appease love's cruel smart.

O the force of Runic verses,
O the mighty strength of song
Cannot baffle all the curses
Which to mortal state belong.

THOUGHTS ON DEATH.
FROM THE SWEDISH OF C. LOHMAN.

Perhaps 't is folly, but still I feel
My heart-strings quiver, my senses reel,
Thinking how like a fast stream we range
Nearer and nearer to yon dread change,
When soul and spirit filter away,
And leave nothing better than senseless clay.

Yield, beauty, yield; for the grave does gape,
And horribly alter'd reflects thy shape,--
For ah! think not those childish charms
Will rest unrifled in its cold arms,
And think not there, that the rose of love
Will bloom on thy features as here above.

Let him who roams at vanity fair,
In robes that rival the tulip's glare,
Think on the chaplet of leaves which round
His fading forehead will soon be bound;
Think on each dirge the priests will say
When his cold corse is borne away.

Let him who seeketh for wealth uncheck'd
By fear of lab