dest horn?
And tell me what is sharper
Than is the sharpest thorn?

"And tell me what is greener
Than greenest grass on hill?
And tell me what is crueller
Than a wicked woman's will?"
The eldest and the second maid,
They sat and thought awhile;
But the youngest she look'd upward,
And spoke with merry smile.

"O, love is surely longer far
Than the longest paths that be;
And hell, they say, is deeper
Than is the deepest sea;
And thunder it is louder
Than is the loudest horn;
And hunger it is sharper
Than is the sharpest thorn;
I know a deadly poison
More green than grass on hill;
And the foul fiend he is crueller
Than any woman's will!"
Scarce had the maiden spoken
When the youth was by her side,
And, all for what she answer'd him,
Has claim'd her as his bride.

The eldest and the second maid,
They ponder'd and were dumb;
And there, perchance, are waiting yet
Till another wooer come.
Then, maidens, take this warning word,
Be neither slow nor shy,
And always, when a lover speaks,
Look kindly and reply.

* * * * *

The following beautiful verses are from Wilhelm Meister. We shall
venture to call them

RETRIBUTION.

He that with tears did never eat his bread,
He that hath never lain through night's long hours,
Weeping in bitter anguish on his bed--
He knows ye not, ye dread celestial powers.
Ye lead us onwards into life. Ye leave
The wretch to fall, then yield him up, in woe,
Remorse, and pain, unceasingly to grieve;
For every sin is punished here below.

* * * * *

We shall close this number with a series of poems, in imitation, or
rather after the manner of the antique, all of which possess singular
beauty. No man understood or appreciated the exquisite delicacy of the
Greek Anthology better than our author; and although we may, in several
of the versions, have fallen short of the originals, we trust that
enough still remains to convince the reader that we have not exaggerated
their merit.

POEMS AFTER THE MANNER OF THE ANTIQUE.

THE HUSBANDMAN.

Lightly doth the furrow fold the golden grain within its breast,
Deeper shroud, old man, shall cover in thy limbs when laid at rest.
Blithely plough and sow as blithely! Here are springs of mortal cheer,
And when e'en the grave is closing, Hope is