The Elements' union

Divides at her rod,

With the hearth-flame she mimics

The sun's glowing god.

To the Isles of the Blessed
She sends the ship forth;
Lo, the southern fruits lending
Their gold to the North!

So, this sap wrung from flame be
A symbol-sign still,

Of the wonders man works with
The Force and the Will!

LIGHT AND WARMTH.

THE nobler man, unchill'd by doubt,
Doth cheerly life begin ;

And deems the world he sees without
Pure as his soul within.

Warm in the generous trust of youth,
He vows his true arm to the truth.

The lowness and the littleness

Of all so soon is shown,

That thro' the throng, and from the press,

He guards himself alone;

His heart in haughty cold repose,

From love at last itself doth close.

The

rays of truth that light bestow Not always warmth impart ;

Blest he who gains the boon TO KNOW,
Nor buys it with the heart!

World-wisdom clear, Enthusiasm bright,
Link-and enjoy both warmth and light.

BREADTH AND DEPTH.

MANY bright wits in the world one sees,
Universal, indeed, in knowledge,

On the charm to attract and the art to please-
Their lore could perplex a college.

So fond of the Learning they show with such pride
That she seems, happy men, their monopolised bride.

And yet they go out of the world quite still,

No trace of existence leaving;

Ah! he who would really the Great fulfil,
And win what is worth achieving,

Must silently gather, and, hour by hour,

In the smallest point, store the amplest power.

Though the stem may rise proud in the air aloft,
Broad shade though the branches render;

Tho' the leaves may be bright, and their fragrance soft, "Tis not they that the fruit engender.

From the kernel alone, though so small it be,

Comes the Pride of the Forest :-It hides the TREE!

HERO AND LEANDER;

A BALLAD.

We have already seen, in "The Ring of Polycrates," Schiller's' mode of dealing with classical subjects. In the poems that follow, derived from similar sources, the same spirit is maintained. In spite of Humboldt, we venture to think that Schiller certainly does not narrate Greek legends in the spirit of an ancient Greek. The Gothic sentiment, in its ethical depth and mournful tenderness, more or less pervades all that he translates from classic fable into modern pathos. The grief of Hero, in the ballad subjoined, touches closely on the lamentations of Thekla, in Wallenstein. The Complaint of Ceres embodies Christian Grief and Christian Hope. The Trojan Cassandra expresses the moral of the Northern Faust. Even the "Victory Feast" changes the whole spirit of Homer, on whom it is founded, by the introduction of the Ethical Sentiment at the close, borrowed, as a modern would apply what he so borrows, from the moralising Horace. Nothing can be more foreign to the Hellenic Genius (if we except the very disputable intention of the "Prometheus ") than the interior and typical design which usually exalts every conception in Schiller. But it is perfectly open to the Modern Poet to treat of ancient legends in the modern spirit. Though he select a Greek story, he is still a modern who narrates-he can never make himself a Greek, any more than Eschylus in the "Persæ" could make himself a Persian. But this is still more the privilege of the Poet in Narrative, or lyrical composition, than in the Drama, for in the former he does not abandon his identity, as in the latter he must yet even this must has its limits. Shakspeare's wonderful power of self-transfusion has no doubt enabled him, in his Plays from Roman History, to animate his characters with much of Roman life. But no one can maintain that a Roman would ever have written plays in the least resembling "Julius Cæsar," or "Coriolanus," or 66 Antony and Cleopatra." The Portraits may be Roman, but they are painted in the manner of the Gothic school. The Spirit of antiquity is only in them, inasmuch as the representation of

Human Nature, under certain circumstances, is accurately, though loosely outlined. When the Poet raises the dead, it is not to restore, but to remodel.

SEE you the towers that, grey and old,
Amidst the sunlight's liquid gold,
Crown each confronting steep?

The Hellespont beneath them swells,
And roaring cleaves the Dardanelles,
The Rock-Gates of the Deep!
Hear you the surges storming on
Against the frowning cliffs above?
Those waves from Asia Europe tore—
They did not frighten Love.

In Hero's, in Leander's heart,
The God hath lodged his holy dart-
Sweet pain, to lovers known!

All Hebè's bloom in Hero's face-
And his the steps that seek the chase,
And roam the mountains lone.

Between their sires the rival feud

Forbids their plighted hearts to meet ;

And Love suspends o'er Danger's gulf
The fruits that are so sweet.

Alone on Sestos' rocky tower,

Where, upward sent in stormy shower,

The eternal waters foam,

Alone the maiden sits, and eyes

The cliffs of fair Abydos rise