Another instance, yet,
Good comrades I can show;
See into yon guinguette
The water-carrier go.
His eyes begin to blink,
His troubles to decline:
'Tis water makes him drink
Good wine.

Of water while I sing,
I'm thirsty with my task:
Be kind enough to bring
A bumper from the cask.
Your glasses bravely clink,
Repeat this strain of mine,-
'Tis water makes us drink
Good wine.

THE WATER FAY.

Another of HEINRICH HEINE'S wild imaginings.

THE night comes stealing o'er me,

And clouds are on the sea;
While the wavelets rustle before me
With a mystical melody.

A water-maid rose singing
Before me fair and pale;

And snow-white breasts were springing
Like fountains, 'neath her veil.

She kissed me and she pressed me,
Till I wished her arms away:
"Why hast thou so caressed me,
Thou lovely Water Fay ?"

"Oh thou need'st not alarm thee, That thus thy form I hold;

For I only seek to warm me,

And the night is black and cold."

"The wind to the waves is calling,
The moonlight is fading away;
And tears down thy cheek are falling,
Thou beautiful Water Fay!"

"The wind to the waves is calling,

And the moonlight grows dim on the rocks; But no tears from mine eyes are falling, 'Tis the water which drips from my locks."

"The ocean is heaving and sobbing,
The sea-mews scream in the spray;
And thy heart is wildly throbbing,
Thou beautiful Water Fay!"

"My heart is wildly swelling,
And it beats in burning truth:
For I love thee, past all telling
Thou beautiful mortal youth!"

ADVERTISEMENT OF A DAY LOST.

By Mrs. SIGOURNEY.

LOST! lost! lost!

A

gem of countless price,

Cut from the living rock,

And graved in Paradise;
Set round with three times eight

Large diamonds, clear and bright,

And each with sixty smaller ones,
All changeful as the light.

Lost where the thoughtless throng
In fashion's mazes wind,

Where thrilleth folly's song
Leaving a sting behind;
Yet to my hand 'twas given

A golden harp to buy,

Such as the white-robed choir attune

To deathless minstrelsy.

Lost! lost! lost!

I feel all search is vain;
That gem of countless cost
Can ne'er be mine again;
I offer no reward,

For these heart strings sever,
I know that Heaven-entrusted gift
Is reft away for ever.

But when the sea and land

Like burning scroll have fled,
I'll see it in His hand

Who judgeth quick and dead;
And when of scath and loss
That man can ne'er repair,
The dread inquiry meets my soul,
What shall it answer there?

LOVE MADE BY A LADY.

A scene of exquisite grace, tenderness, and refinement, and abounding in poetry, from BEAUMONT and FLETCHER'S play of Philaster.

Arethusa, the daughter of the reigning King of Sicily, makes honourable love to Philaster, the rightful heir to the Crown.

ARETHUSA and one of her Ladies.

Arethusa. Comes he not?

Lady. Madam ?

Are. Will Philaster come?

Lady. Dear madam, you were wont to credit me At first.

Are. But didst thou tell me so ?

I am forgetful, and my woman's strength

Is so o'ercharged with dangers like to grow
About my marriage, that these under things
Dare not abide in such a troubled sea.

How look'd he, when he told thee he would come?
Lady. Why, well.

Are. And not a little fearful?

Lady. Fear, madam! sure he knows not what it is. Are. You all are of his faction; the whole court Is bold in praise of him: whilst I

May live neglected, and do noble things,

As fools in strife throw gold into the sea,

Drowned in the doing. But I know he fears.

Lady. Methought his looks hid more of love than fear.
Are. Of love? to whom? to you u ?—

Did you deliver those plain words I sent,
With such a winning gesture and quick look,
That you have caught him ?

Lady. Madam, I mean to you.

Are. Of love to me? alas! thy ignorance
Lets thee not see the crosses of our births.
Nature, that loves not to be questioned
Why she did this or that, but has her ends,
And knows she does well, never gave the world
Two things so opposite, so contrary,

As he and I am. If a bowl of blood,

Drawn from this arm of mine, would poison thee,
A draught of his would cure thee. Of love to me?
Lady. Madam, I think I hear him,

Are. Bring him in.—

Ye gods, that would not have your dooms withstood,
Whose holy wisdoms at this time it is

To make the passions of a feeble maid

The way unto your justice, I obey.

Enter PHILASTER.

Lady. Here is my lord Philaster.

Are. Oh! 'tis well.

Withdraw yourself.

Philaster. Madam, your messenger

Made me believe you wish'd to speak with me.
Are. 'Tis true, Philaster; but the words are such

I have to say, and do so ill beseem

The mouth of woman, that I wish them said,

And yet am loth to speak them. Have you known,
That I have aught detracted from your worth?
Have I in person wronged you? Or have set
My baser instruments to throw disgrace

Upon your virtues ?

Phi. Never, madam, you.

Are. Why, then, should you, in such a public place, Injure a princess, and a scandal lay

Upon my fortunes, famed to be so great;

Calling a great part of my dowry in question?

Phi. Madam, this truth which I shall speak, will be Foolish but for your fair and virtuous self, I could afford myself to have no right

To anything you wish'd.

Are. Philaster, know,

I must enjoy these kingdoms.
Phi. Madam! Both?

Are. Both, or I die. By fate, I die, Philaster,
If I not calmly may enjoy them both.

Phi. I would do much to save that noble life;

Yet would be loth to have posterity

Find in our stories, that Philaster gave
His right unto a sceptre and a crown,
To save a lady's longing.

Are. Nay then, hear!

I must and will have them, and more

Phi. What more?

Are. Or lose that little life the gods prepared

To trouble this poor piece of earth withal.

Phi. Madam, what more?

Are. Turn, then, away thy face.

Phi. No.

Are. Do.

Phi. I cannot endure it. Turn away my face?

I never yet saw enemy that look'd

So dreadfully, but that I thought myself
As great a basilisk as he; or spake

Shall I then

So horrible, but that I thought my tongue
Bore thunder underneath, as much as his;
Nor beast that I could turn from.
Begin to fear sweet sounds? a lady's voice,
Whom I do love? Say, you would have my life;
Why, I will give it you; for 'tis of me
A thing so loath'd, and unto you that ask
Of so poor use, that I shall make no price:
If you entreat, I will unmov'dly hear.

Are. Yet, for my sake, a little bend thy looks.
Phi. I do.

Are. Then know, I must have them, and thee. ·