A NORTHERN LEGEND.

(FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND.)

THERE sits a lovely maiden,
The ocean murmuring nigh;

She throws the hook, and watches;
The fishes pass it by.

A ring, with a red jewel,
Is sparkling on her hand;
Upon the hook she binds it,

And flings it from the land.

Uprises from the water

A hand like ivory fair.
What gleams upon its finger?
The golden ring is there.

Uprises from the bottom

A young and handsome knight;

In golden scales he rises,

That glitter in the light.

The maid is pale with terror
"Nay, Knight of Ocean, nay,
It was not thee I wanted;
Let go the ring, I pray.”

"Ah, maiden, not to fishes The bait of gold is thrown; The ring shall never leave me,

And thou must be my own."

THE MAIDEN'S SORROW.

SEVEN long years has the desert rain

Dropped on the clods that hide thy face; Seven long years of sorrow and pain I have thought of thy burial-place.

Thought of thy fate in the distant West,

Dying with none that loved thee near; They who flung the earth on thy breast Turned from the spot without a tear.

There, I think, on that lonely grave,
Violets spring in the soft May shower;
There, in the summer breezes, wave
Crimson phlox and moccasin flower.

There the turtles alight, and there

Feeds with her fawn the timid doe;
There, when the winter woods are bare,
Walks the wolf on the crackling snow.

Soon wilt thou wipe my tears away;
All my task upon earth is done;
My poor father, old and gray,

Slumbers beneath the churchyard stone.

In the dreams of my lonely bed,
Ever thy form before me seems;
All night long I talk with the dead,

All day long I think of my dreams.

This deep wound that bleeds and aches,
This long pain, a sleepless pain-
When the Father my spirit takes,
I shall feel it no more again.

THE RETURN OF YOUTH.

My friend, thou sorrowest for thy golden prime, For thy fair youthful years too swift of flight; Thou musest, with wet eyes, upon the time

Of cheerful hopes that filled the world with

light,

Years when thy heart was bold, thy hand was strong,

And quick the thought that moved thy tongue

to speak,

And willing faith was thine, and scorn of wrong Summoned the sudden crimson to thy cheek.

Thou lookest forward on the coming days, Shuddering to feel their shadows o'er thee creep; A path, thick-set with changes and decays,

Slopes downward to the place of common sleep; And they who walked with thee in life's first stage,

Leave one by one thy side, and, waiting near, Thou seest the sad companions of thy ageDull love of rest, and weariness and fear.