d bright,
That he came to feast his sight,
And wonder at its growing.
Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red,
Rosebud brightly blowing!

I will gather thee--he cried--
Rosebud brightly blowing!
Then I'll sting thee, it replied,
And you'll quickly start aside
With the prickle glowing.
Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red,
Rosebud brightly blowing!

But he pluck'd it from the plain,
The rosebud brightly blowing!
It turn'd and stung him, but in vain--
He regarded not the pain,
Homewards with it going.
Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red,
Rosebud brightly blowing!

We are sure that the votaries of Wordsworth will thank us for the next
translation, which embodies a most noble idea. See how the eye of the
poet is scanning the silent march of the heavens, and mark with what
solemn music he invests the stately thought!

A NIGHT THOUGHT.

I do not envy you, ye joyless stars,
Though fair ye be, and glorious to the sight--
The seaman's hope amidst the 'whelming storm,
When help from God or man there cometh none.
No! for ye love not, nor have ever loved!
Through the broad fields of heaven, the eternal hours
Lead on your circling spheres unceasingly.
How vast a journey have ye travell'd o'er,
Since I, upon the bosom of my love,
Forgot all memory of night or you!

Let us follow up these glorious lines with a conception worthy of
AEschylus--indeed an abstract of his master-subject. It were out of place
here to dilate upon the mythical grandeur of Prometheus, and the heroic
endurance of his character, as depicted by the ancient poet. To our mind
and ear, the modern is scarcely inferior.

PROMETHEUS.

Curtain thy heavens, thou Jove, with clouds and mist,
And, like a boy that moweth thistles down,
Unloose thy spleen on oaks and mountain-tops;
Yet canst thou not deprive me of my earth,
Nor of my hut, the which thou didst not build,
Nor of my hearth, whose little cheerful flame
Thou enviest me!

I know not aught within the universe
More slight, more pitiful than you, ye Gods!
Who nurse your majesty with scant supplies
Of offerings wrung from fear, and mutter'd prayers,
And needs must starve, were't not that babes and beggars
Are hope-besotted fools!

When I was yet a child, and knew not whence
My being came, nor where to turn its