The Irish poet, James Clarence Mangan, (whose translations from the German comprise both the best and the worst specimens I have yet found,) has been successful in rendering one of Rueckert's ghazels. I am specially tempted to quote it, on account of the curious general resemblance (accidental, no doubt) which Poe's "Lenore" bears to it. "I saw her once, a little while, and then no more: 'T was Eden's light on earth awhile, and then no more. Amid the throng she passed along the meadow-floor; Spring seemed to smile on earth awhile, and then no more, But whence she came, which way she went, what garb she wore, I noted not; I gazed awhile, and then no more. "I saw her once, a little while, and then no more: 'T was Paradise on earth awhile, and then no more. Ah! what avail my vigils pale, my magic lore? She shone before mine eyes awhile, and then no more. The shallop of my peace is wrecked on Beauty's shore; Near Hope's fair isle it rode awhile, and then no more. "I saw her once, a little while, and then no more: Earth looked like Heaven a little while, and then no more. Her presence thrilled and lighted to its inmost core My desert breast a little while, and then no more. So may, perchance, a meteor glance at midnight o'er Some ruined pile a little while, and then no more. "I saw her once, a little while and then no more: The earth was Eden-land awhile, and then no more. O, might I see but once again, as once before, Through chance or wile, that shape awhile, and then no more! Death soon would heal my grief: this heart, now sad and sore, Would beat anew, a little while, and then no more!" Here, nevertheless, something is sacrificed. The translation is by no means literal, and lacks the crispness and freshness of Oriental antithesis. Rueckert, I fear, will never be as fortunate as Hariri of Bosrah. When, in 1856, I again visited Germany, I received a friendly message from the old poet, with a kind invitation to visit him. Late in November I found him, apparently unchanged in body and spirit,--simple, enthusiastic, and, in spite of his seclusion, awake to all the movements of the world. One of his married sons was then visiting him, so that the household was larger and livelier than usual; but, as he sat, during the evening, in his favorite arm-chair, with pipe and beer, he fell into the same brilliant, wise strain of talk, undisturbed by all the cheerful young voices around him. The conversation gradually wandered away from the Orient to the modern languages of Europe. I remarked the special capacity of the German for descriptions of forest scenery,--of the feeling and sentiment of deep, dark woods, and woodland solitudes.