A rescue! rescue! bear him hence Into the leaguer near; Pour balsam in his glorious wounds, And weep above his bier. And when from that hot trance I pass, Great Love, I feel thy charm; There hangs my lady's picture near-- A picture yet so warm! How fair she was, reclining there; What languish in her look! How thrill'd her glance through all my frame! The very pencil shook. Her eyes, her cheeks, her lovely lips, Were all the world to me; And in my breast a younger life Rose wild and wantonly. Oh! turn again, and bide thee here, Nor fear such rude alarms; How could I think of battles more With thee within my arms! But thou shalt lend thy perfect form To all I fashion best; I'll paint thee first, Madonna-wise, The infant on thy breast. I'll paint thee as a startled nymph, Myself a following fawn; And still pursue thy flying feet Across the woodland lawn. With helm on head, like Mars, I'll lie By thee, the Queen of Love, And draw a net around us twain, And smile on heaven above. And every god that comes shall pour His blessings on thy head, And envious eyes be far away From that dear marriage-bed! There is abundance of spirit here. For once, in describing the battle and fall of Patroclus, Goethe seems to have caught a spark of Homeric inspiration, and the lines ring out as clearly as the stroke of the hammer on the anvil. There is no rhyme in the original, which, we confess, appears to us a fault; more especially as the rhythm is that of the ordinary ballad. We have, therefore, ventured to supply it, with as little deviation otherwise as possible. It is for the reader to judge whether the effect is diminished. Our next selection shall be "The God and the Bayadere"--a poem which is little inferior in beauty to the Bride of Corinth, and which, from its structure, opposes to the translator quite as serious a difficulty. The subject is taken from the Hindoo mythology, and conveys a very touching moral of humanity and forbearance; somewhat daring, perhaps, from its novelty, and the peculiar customs and religious faith of an eastern land, yet, withal, most delicately handled. * * * * * THE GOD AND THE BAYADERE. AN INDIAN LEGEND. I. Mahadeh, earth's lord, descending To its mansions comes again, That, like man with mortals blending, He may feel their joy and pain; Stoops to try life's varied changes, And with human eyes to see, Ere he praises or avenges, What their fitful lot may be. He has pass'd through the city, has look'd on them all; He has watch'd o'er the great, nor forgotten the small, And at evening went forth on his journey so free. II.