"God hath only tried us, not forsaken!"
And then gladly spake she to her husband:
"Pavo, Pavo! take with joy the sickle,

We may now make glad our hearts with plenty,
Now may throw away the bark unsavory,
And bake rich, sweet bread of rye-meal only!"

Pavo took her hand in his, and answered:
"Woman, woman! 'tis but sent to try us,
If we will have pity on the sufferer.

Mix thou bark with corn even as aforetime,
Frosts have killed the harvest of our neighbor."

Translation of MRS. HOWITT.

JOHANN LUDWIG RUNEBERG.

COUNTRY LIFE.

FROM THE GERMAN,

Happy the man who has the town escaped!
To him the whistling trees, the murmuring brooks,
The shining pebbles preach

Virtue's and wisdom's lore.

The whispering grove a holy temple is
To him, where God draws nigher to his soul;
Each verdant sod a shrine

Whereby he kneels to Heaven.

The nightingale on him sings slumber down-
The nightingale rewakes him, fluting sweet,
When shines the lovely red

Of morning through the trees.

Then he admires thee in the plain, O God!
In the ascending pomp of dawning day-
Thee in the glorious sun-

The worm-the budding branch.

Where coolness gushes in the waving grass,
Or o'er the flowers, streams, and fountains rests;
Inhales the breath of prime,

The gentle airs of eve.

His straw-decked thatch, where doves bask in the sun,
And play and hop, incites to sweeter rest

Than golden halls of state

Or beds of down afford.

To him the plumy-people sporting chirp,
Chatter, and whistle, on his basket perch,
And from his quiet hand

Pick crumbs, or peas, or grains.

Oft wanders he alone, and thinks on death;
And in the village church-yard by the graves
Sits, and beholds the cross-

Death's waving garland there.

The stone beneath the elders, where a text

Of Scripture teaches joyfully to die

And with his scythe stands Death

An angel, too, with palms.

Happy the man who thus hath 'scaped the town!
Him did an angel bless when he was born-

The cradle of the boy

With flowers celestial strewed.

Translation of C. T. BROOKS.

LUDWIG HOLTY.

SCENE IN AN AMERICAN FOREST.

FROM A LETTER OF LORD EDWARD FITZGERALD TO THE DUCHESS OF LEINSTER.

ST. JOHN'S, NEW BRUNSWICK, July 8, 1788.

MY DEAREST MOTHER-Here I am, after a very long and fatiguing journey. I had no itlea of what it was; it was more like a campaign than anything else, except in one material point, that of having no danger. I should have enjoyed it most completely but for the musquitoes, but they took off a great deal of my pleasure; the millions of them are dreadful; if it had not been for this inconvenience, my journey would have been delightful. The country is almost all in a state of nature, as well as its inhabitants. There are four sorts of these-the Indians, the French, the old English settlers, and now the refugees from other parts of America; the last seem the most civilized. The old settlers are almost as wild as Indians, but lead a very comfortable life; they are all farmers, and live entirely within themselves.

I came by a settlement along one of the rivers, which was all the work of one pair; the old man was seventy-two, the old lady seventy; they had been there thirty years; they came there with one cow, three children, and one servant; there was not a being within sixty miles of them. The first year they lived mostly on milk and marsh leaves; the second year they contrived to purchase a bull by the produce of their moose skins and fish; from this time they got on very well; and there are now five sons and a daughter, all settled in different farms along the

river for the space of twenty miles, and all living comfortably and at ease. The old pair live alone in the little old cabin they first settled in, two miles from any of their children; their little spot of ground is cultivated by these children, and they are supplied with so much butter, grain, meal, etc., from each child, according to the share he got of the land, so that the old folks have nothing to do but to mind their house, which is a kind of inn they keep, more for the sake of the company of the few travelers there are than for gain. I was obliged to stay a day with the old people, on account of the tides, which did not answer for going up the river till next morning. It was, I think, as odd and pleasant a day, in its way, as ever I passed. I wish I could describe it to you, but I can not; you must only help it out with your own imagination. Conceive, dearest mother, arriving about twelve o'clock in a hot day, at a little cabin upon the side of a rapid river, the banks all covered with wood, not a house in sight, and there finding a little, clean, tidy woman spinning, with an old man, of the same appearance, weeding salad. We had come for ten miles up the river without seeing any thing but woods. The old pair, on our arrival, got as active as if only five-and-twenty, the gentleman getting wood and water, the lady frying eggs and bacon, both talking a great deal, telling their story, as I mentioned before, how they had been there thirty years, and how their children were settled, and, when either's back was turned, remarking how old the other had grown; at the same time all kindness, all cheerfulness, and love to each other. The contrast of all this, which had passed during the day, with the quietness of the evening, when the spirits of the old people had a little subsided and began to wear off with the day, and with the fatigue of their little work, sitting quietly at their door, on the same spot they had lived in thirty years together; the contented thoughtfulness of their countenances, which was increased by their age and the solitary life they had led; the wild quietness of the place-not a living creature or habitation to be seen—and me, Tony, and our guide, sitting with them, all on one log; the difference of the scene I had left-the immense way I had to get from this corner of the world to any thing I loved-the difference of the life I should lead from that of this old pair, perhaps at their age discontented, disappointed, and miserable, wishing for power-my dearest mother, if it was not for you, I believe I never should go home, at least I thought so at that moment. However, here I am with my regiment, up at six in the morning doing all sorts of right things, and liking it very much, determined to go home next spring, and live with you a great deal. Employment keeps up my spirits, and I shall have more every day. I own I often think how happy I should be with G, in some of the spots I see; and envied every young farmer I met whom I saw sitting down with a young wife whom he was going to work to maintain. I believe these thoughts made my journey pleasanter than it otherwise would have