POMPEII AND HERCULANEUM.

HAT wonder this ?—we ask the limpid well,

WHAT

O Earth, of thee !—and from thy solemn womb What yield'st thou? Is there life in the abyss ?-

Hath a new race (concealed till now) its home
Under the lava ?-Doth the Past return?-

O Greeks-O Romans!-Come !-Behold, again
Rises the old Pompeii, and rebuilt

The long-lost town of Dorian Hercules!
House upon house!-The spacious portico
Opens its halls! On, haste and fill with life
The void?-Wide open, too, before us spreads
The ample theater! Recall the crowd;

Through the seven mouths let the great audience stream!

Where are ye, mimes? Come forth! Let crown'd Atrides

Complete the sacrifice! Avenging Furies

Chase mad Orestes, chanting ghastly hymns!
But see!-the Arch of Triumph stands before us.
Whither to lead ? We pass, and gain the Forum.
What shapes are seated on the curule chair?
Lictors, advance the fasces! Place the Prætor
On his judicial throne. Now call the witness,
And let the accuser open with his charge.

On stretch the clean, clear streets, with narrow path

Commodious raised, and neighboring silent doors

Under projecting roofs; and all around

The desolate Atrium, cordial and familiar

With Home's still smile, the graceful chambers spread.

Open the shops, and every long-closed entry;
On dreary night let lusty sunshine fall.

See the trim benches ranged in order!— See The rich designs of tesselated floors, And from the walls still freshly glitter out The glowing colors. But the artist where? Sure but this instant he hath laid aside Pencil and pallet !—With elaborate flowers And swelling fruits the lively, rich festoon Borders and frames the charming images. Here with heap'd basket steals a Cupid by; There Genii press with purpling feet the grapes ; Here dancing springs the wild Bacchante, there Fatigued she slumbers, while the listening Faun Watches her sleep with never-sated eyes; Now on the Centaur with one knee she rests, And with light Thyrsus goads him, bounding on.

Slaves, here! why loiter ye?—Neglected stand The goodly vessels! Hither, O ye handmaids! And fill the Etruscan urn! How gracefully On the wing'd sphinges does the tripod rest! Stir up the fire; the hospitable hearth Prepare! Go to the market-take these coins, Fresh from the mintage of imperial Titus ;

MIA OL.

And stay, the scales; look, not a weight is lost.
Now light the branches (with what delicate art
Fashioned !) and feed with lucent oil the lamp.
What holds this casket? Maiden, come and see
The gifts the bridegroom sends thee! Golden
armlets,

And glittering trinkets-feigning gems in paste!
Into the fragrant bath conduct the bride;
Here are the unguents, and the artful blooms
For Beauty, still the hollow'd crystal hoards.

But where the men of old?-the Ancients where? A costlier treasure yet do serious archives Store in the still Museum. Look! the stylus, And here the waxen tablets-naught is lost.

The earth, with faithful watch, has guarded all ! Still the Penates stand. Back every God

Comes to his haunts: why absent but the Priests ?
Lo! his Caduceus light-wing'd Hermes waves,
And Victory soars, escaping from his hand.

There are the Altars. Quick, O quick! and kindle(Long has the God without his incense been), Kindle the votive sacrificial flame!

THE YOUTH BY THE BROOK.

SUNG in The Parasite, a comedy which Schiller translated from Picard-much the best comedy, by-the-way, that Picard ever wrote. brook the Boy reclined

BESIDE the

And wove his flowery wreath,

And to the waves the wreath consigned—

The waves that danced beneath.
"So fleet mine hours," he sigh'd, "away
Like waves that restless flow :
And, so my flowers of youth decay,
Like those that float below.

"Oh, ask not why I mourn and grieve
In youth's fair blooming time;
All life doth hope and joy receive
With spring's returning prime.
The voices that with Nature wake
In thousand hymns of glee,
But rouse the happy world, to make
My heart more sad to me.

"Alas! in vain the joys that break
From Spring voluptuous, are;
For only ONE 'tis mine to seek-
The Near, yet ever Far !

I stretch my arms, that shadow-shape
In fond embrace to hold;

Still doth the shade the clasp escape-
The heart is unconsoled!

Come forth, fair Friend, come forth below,

And leave thy lofty hall;

The fairest flowers the spring can know

In thy dear lap shall fall !

Clear glides the brook in silver roll'd,
Sweet carols fill the air;

The meanest hut hath space to hold
A happy, loving Pair !”

FRIDOLIN;

OR, THE MESSAGE TO THE FORGE.

SCHILLER, speaking of this Ballad, which he had then nearly concluded, says that "accident had suggested to him a very pretty theme for a Ballad;" and that "after having travelled through air and water, alluding to "The Cranes of Ibycus" and "The Diver," "he should now claim to himself the Element of Fire." Hoffmeister supposes from the name of Savern, the French orthography for Zabern, a town in Alsatia, that Schiller took the material for his tale from a French source, though there are German Legends analagous to it. The general style of the Ballad is simple almost to homeliness, though not to the puerility affected by some of our own Ballad-writers. But the pictures of the Forge and the Catholic Ritual are worked out with singular force and truthfulness.

A

HARMLESS lad was Fridolin,

A pious youth was he;

He served, and sought her grace to win,
Count Savern's fair lady;

And gentle was the Dame as fair,

And light the toils of service there,