The bark, whilome with streamers gay,
To pieces falls with loud commotion;
The image only works its way,

Dashed from its scaffold to the ocean.

Now must the Gladiator strive
Contending fiercely with the ocean,
When suddenly I feel an arm

Clasped round me with a trembling motion.

From dripping locks, an anguish'd face
Looks forth, as pale as marble statue :---
It is the sailor's gentle child-

'Hold fast! Be strong! and thee I'll rescue.'

Together with convulsive grasp

Her hands are lock'd; three days I bore her;
Lo! on the fourth, the land appears,
But ah! a corse, I now deplore her.

The breakers hurl us on the beach :-
To greet their sister from the waters,
Through palmy groves, o'er flowery lawns,
Come forth the island's graceful daughters.

The sea-waves moan, the wild doves coo,
Beneath the earth they lay her weeping;
An ancient bread-tree shades the spot
Where she, the stranger maid, lies sleeping.

Safe on the shore the Lena lay,
Her prow alone the tempest's portion:
Behold my form adorns her now,

And ceaseless thus I plough the ocean.

In the foregoing poem we have a remarkable instance of our author's tendency to invest inanimate objects with the attributes of humanity, a licence in which he not unfrequently indulges also in reference to the brute creation. The swallow, on its return to more northerly regions, recounts its experiences in the glowing land of the desert and the palm. The stranded Leviathan, in the agonies of death, groans forth its imprecations against man's miserable brood. The month of May is a merry rover, bearing blossoms and verdure from the palmy forests of the Indian seas, and the royal mummy reposing in the Pyramid,

awakened by the lion's roar, reverts to the time when, throned in his city with a hundred gates, the ancestors of him who thus disturbs his peace were yoked to his triumphal car. We have space for only one more example of this class of compositions, and select

THE REVENGE OF THE FLOWERS.

Pillow'd soft, the maid reclineth,
Bathed in slumber's golden dew;
On her cheek the rose-bloom shineth;
Shrouded are her orbs of blue.

See a chalice stands beside her,

Rainbow hued, and wrought with skill;
Blossoms fair and freshly gathered

With their blooms the chalice fill.

Heavy with oppressive fulness,

Broods the hot and perfum'd air;
Summer heats have scar'd the coolness;
Closed are all the windows there.

Quiet is the room and noiseless!

Sudden Hark! Soft whispers come !
Breathing murmurs, sounding voiceless,
From the branches and the bloom.

Fairy shapes, like winged odours,
From the chaliced flowers exhale;
Crowns adorn the elfin creatures,
Airy mist their cincture pale.

From the rose's sweet recesses
Floats a comely maiden fair;
Freely wave her wanton tresses,

Pearls, like dew-drops, glitter there.

From the dark and helmèd monk's hood,
With his heron-plume and shield,
Steps, in bloom of lustihood,

A gallant knight, his sword to wield.

From the lily's snow-white chalice,
Soars a form of virgin light;

Thin as gossamer the texture,

Wreathed around the dainty sprite.

From the gourd, like eastern sultan,
Steps a moor in gorgeous show;
Brightly in his dark green turban
Gleams the crescent's golden bow.

From the crown-imperial, boldly
Issues forth a sceptred king;
And his huntsman dressed in liv'ry,
From the iris taketh wing.

From the leaves of the narcissus
Floats a youth with sombre air,
Who imprinteth burning kisses

On the maiden slumb'ring there.
But around her couch the others

Dance and whirl in mazy ring;
As they whirl, to her who slumbers,
Thus their choral strain they sing.
'Maiden, maiden, thou hast torn us,
Ruthless from our native soil,
Prisoned in this colour'd chalice,
Here to wither, droop, and spoil.

On our mother earth reposing,
Oh how blissfully we slept,
Where to kiss us, through the waving
Branches, golden sunbeams crept :

Where our stalks so slight and slender,
Cooling zephyrs gently swayed;
Where within our leafy mansion,
Merry elves we nightly played.

Rain and pearly dew reviv'd us;
Here we wallow in the mire;
Maiden, yet before we perish,

Thou shalt feel our vengeful ire.'

Now the choral music endeth;
Round the sleeper low they bow;
With the silence once more blendeth
Many a whisper faint and low.

What a strange and hollow murmur !

How the maiden's cheek doth bloom,

As the spirits breathe upon her,

And exhale their faint perfume!

Now the sun salutes the chamber;
With his beams the shadows fly!
Lo! upon the downy pillow

Cold, the fairest corpse doth lie!

She, herself a faded blossom,
Still with roseate beauty fair,
Sleepeth near her faded sisters—
Odours sweet have stifled her!

The following picture of a group of German emigrants, preparing to abandon their native country, and to seek new homes amid the solitudes of the far West, appears to us one of the most pleasing poems in the collection.

THE EMIGRANTS.

I cannot turn aside my gaze;

Still must I mark yon pensive band;
How to the mariners they reach

Their goods with never-wearied hand.

Strong men, who from the boat uplift
Their heavy baskets, stored with bread,
From German corn prepared, and baked

On hearths they never more shall tread.
Black-forest maids, of slender form,

With platted tresses, dark their mien;
Their pitchers carefully they range
Upon the shallop's benches green.

In those same pitchers oft you've drawn
Bright waters from the village spring:
By far Missouri, to your hearts

The scenes of home full oft they 'll bring ;

The fountain, with its moss-grown wall,
Where once ye filled them, stooping low ;—
The dear familiar hearth, the shelf

Where they were ranged in seemly row ;-
Soon the log cabin's walls they 'll grace,
In the far West; and soon your hands
Shall reach them, brimming o'er, to guests
Of dusky mien, who roam those lands.

Thence the chace-wearied Tscherokee
Shall drink, reposing on the ground.
No more with songs ye 'll bear them home,
From German vintage, verdure crown'd.
Oh, why forsake your native land?
The Neckar's vale has wine and corn;
In the black forest lowers the pine,
And in the Spessart sounds the horn.
Mid shadowy forests how your hearts
To your dear native land will yearn!
How to her fields of golden maize,

Her vine-clad hills, you 'll fondly turn!
The light of by-gone days shall haunt
Your dreams as with a mystic spell;
Like to a pious legend old,

We have reserved for our concluding specimen of Freiligrath's poems the one which is our greatest favourite. It has been remarked that "apart from all questions of inspiration, there is no grander agent than the Bible in the world. It has opened the devout and fervid East to the wonder and affection of the West." We cordially sympathise in this utterance, and feel assured that all lovers of this wonderful book will relish the following little poem, entitled

THE PICTURE BIBLE.

Hail! playmate of my childhood,
Thou folio, gray with age,
Oft has a hand beloved

Unclasped for me thy page:
Oft have thy pictur❜d treasures
Entranc'd the dreaming boy,
Who, lost in Eastern splendours,
Neglected every toy.