en,
Till every gallant's eye shot fire,
And down look'd every maiden.
The king, enraptured with his strain,
Held out to him a golden chain,
In guerdon of his harping.

"The golden chain give not to me,
For noble's breast its glance is,
Who meets and beats thy enemy
Amid the shock of lances.
Or give it to thy chancellere--
Let him its golden burden bear,
Among his other burdens.

"I sing as sings the bird, whose note
The leafy bough is heard on.
The song that falters from my throat
For me is ample guerdon.
Yet I'd ask one thing, an I might,
A draught of brave wine, sparkling bright
Within a golden beaker!"

The cup was brought. He drain'd its lees,
"O draught that warms me cheerly!
Blest is the house where gifts like these
Are counted trifles merely.
Lo, when you prosper, think on me,
And thank your God as heartily
As for this draught I thank you!"

* * * * *

We intend to close the present Number with a very graceful, though
simple ditty, which Goethe may possibly have altered from the
Morlachian, but which is at all events worthy of his genius.
Previously, however, in case any of the ladies should like something
sentimental, we beg leave to present them with as nice a little
_chansonette_ as ever was transcribed into an album.

THE VIOLET.

A violet blossom'd on the lea,
Half hidden from the eye,
As fair a flower as you might see;
When there came tripping by
A shepherd maiden fair and young,
Lightly, lightly o'er the lea;
Care she knew not, and she sung
Merrily!

"O were I but the fairest flower
That blossoms on the lea;
If only for one little hour,
That she might gather me--
Clasp me in her bonny breast!"
Thought the little flower.
"O that in it I might rest
But an hour!"

Lack-a-day! Up came the lass,
Heeded not the violet;
Trod it down into the grass;
Though it died, 'twas happy yet.
"Trodden down although I lie,
Yet my death is very sweet--
For I cannot choose but die
At her feet!"

* * * * *

THE DOLEFUL LAY OF THE NOBLE WIFE OF ASAN AGA.

What is yon so white beside the greenwood?
Is it snow, or flight of cygnets resting?
Were it snow, ere now it had been melted;
Were it swans, ere now the flock had left us.
Neither snow nor swans are resting yonder,