re;
What languish in her look!
How thrill'd her glance through all my frame!
The very pencil shook.

Her eyes, her cheeks, her lovely lips,
Were all the world to me;
And in my breast a younger life
Rose wild and wantonly.

Oh! turn again, and bide thee here,
Nor fear such rude alarms;
How could I think of battles more
With thee within my arms!

But thou shalt lend thy perfect form
To all I fashion best;
I'll paint thee first, Madonna-wise,
The infant on thy breast.

I'll paint thee as a startled nymph,
Myself a following fawn;
And still pursue thy flying feet
Across the woodland lawn.

With helm on head, like Mars, I'll lie
By thee, the Queen of Love,
And draw a net around us twain,
And smile on heaven above.

And every god that comes shall pour
His blessings on thy head,
And envious eyes be far away
From that dear marriage-bed!

There is abundance of spirit here. For once, in describing the battle
and fall of Patroclus, Goethe seems to have caught a spark of Homeric
inspiration, and the lines ring out as clearly as the stroke of the
hammer on the anvil. There is no rhyme in the original, which, we
confess, appears to us a fault; more especially as the rhythm is that of
the ordinary ballad. We have, therefore, ventured to supply it, with as
little deviation otherwise as possible. It is for the reader to judge
whether the effect is diminished.

Our next selection shall be "The God and the Bayadere"--a poem which is
little inferior in beauty to the Bride of Corinth, and which, from its
structure, opposes to the translator quite as serious a difficulty. The
subject is taken from the Hindoo mythology, and conveys a very touching
moral of humanity and forbearance; somewhat daring, perhaps, from its
novelty, and the peculiar customs and religious faith of an eastern
land, yet, withal, most delicately handled.

* * * * *

THE GOD AND THE BAYADERE.

AN INDIAN LEGEND.

I.

Mahadeh, earth's lord, descending
To its mansions comes again,
That, like man with mortals blending,
He may feel their joy and pain;
Stoops to try life's varied changes,
And with human eyes to see,
Ere he praises or avenges,
What their fitful lot may be.
He has pass'd through the city,