When thou movest in the dance, All the stars with thee are moving, And around thee gleam and glance, Never tired of loving. Night!--and would the night were here! Yet the moon would lose her duty, Though her sheen be soft and clear, Softer is thy beauty! Fair, and kind, and gentle one! Do not moon, and stars, and flowers Pay that homage to their sun That we pay to ours? Sun of mine, that art so dear-- Sun, that art above all sorrow! Shine, I pray thee, on me here Till the eternal morrow. Another little poem makes us think of "poor Ophelia." We suspect that Goethe had the music of her broken ballad floating in his mind, when he composed the following verses:-- THE WILD ROSE. A boy espied, in morning light, A little rosebud blowing. 'Twas so delicate and bright, That he came to feast his sight, And wonder at its growing. Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red, Rosebud brightly blowing! I will gather thee--he cried-- Rosebud brightly blowing! Then I'll sting thee, it replied, And you'll quickly start aside With the prickle glowing. Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red, Rosebud brightly blowing! But he pluck'd it from the plain, The rosebud brightly blowing! It turn'd and stung him, but in vain-- He regarded not the pain, Homewards with it going. Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red, Rosebud brightly blowing! We are sure that the votaries of Wordsworth will thank us for the next translation, which embodies a most noble idea. See how the eye of the poet is scanning the silent march of the heavens, and mark with what solemn music he invests the stately thought! A NIGHT THOUGHT. I do not envy you, ye joyless stars, Though fair ye be, and glorious to the sight-- The seaman's hope amidst the 'whelming storm, When help from God or man there cometh none. No! for ye love not, nor have ever loved! Through the broad fields of heaven, the eternal hours Lead on your circling spheres unceasingly. How vast a journey have ye travell'd o'er, Since I, upon the bosom of my love, Forgot all memory of night or you! Let us follow up these glorious lines with a conception worthy of AEschylus--indeed an abstract of his master-subject. It were out of place here to dilate upon the mythical grandeur of Prometheus, and the heroic endurance of his character, as depicted by the ancient poet. To our mind and ear, the modern is scarcely inferior. PROMETHEUS. Curtain thy heavens, thou Jove, with clouds and mist, And, like a boy that moweth thistles down, Unloose thy spleen on oaks and mountain-tops; Yet canst thou not deprive me of my earth, Nor of my hut, the which thou didst not build, Nor of my hearth, whose little cheerful flame Thou enviest me!