"How pretty she looks (he thought to himself) standing there by her rough old father, looking up to him with that pleased, confiding look; how much prettier than a fashionable belle who is ashamed of her father because he is plain, and shows it whenever there is some one by, I think"-- "It is time we were over the river," said Karl, interrupting Mr. Ashburner in his contemplations. "I think," said Mr. Ashburner to himself, as they were crossing the water on their way home, "I think I will call to-morrow and see if she really is as artless as she seems;" and a moment after to his companions, "I believe I will practice rowing a few hours a day for the next few days; physicians say it's a capital exercise." "I think," said Karl, "you had better not. Exercise on horseback." Said Harry, "Its precious little rowing you'll do." "Yes," Ashburner rejoined, "I will, and to convince you, I mean to go alone." We will say with one Virgil-- "Felix qui protuit rerum cognoscere causas." LEONORA TO TASSO. WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE BY MRS. M. E. HEWITT. Ah, bliss! I dreamed or thee last night! Thee, whom my heart so deifies-- Again I met the thrilling light Of thy serene and earnest eyes. I dreamed of thee! Ah, gracious boon, That gladdens thus my waking hours! Above us bent Italia's noon, Around us breathed the scent of flowers: My hand lay gently clasped in thine. No sound disturbed our joy's excess; And soft thine eyes poured down on mine, Their wildering rays of tenderness: "My Leonora!" 'Twas thy same Low voice that o'er my memory broke; But even while thine accents came I murmured "Tasso!" and awoke. Ah, me! awoke! Yet all the day Thy presence hath been round me still-- The airs that through my lattice play, And toss the vines at their sweet will, Repeat thy tones--and every where I meet thine eyes still bent on me-- Ah, blessed dream! that gilds my care, And brightens this reality. HUNGARIAN POPULAR SONGS. TRANSLATED FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE FROM WOLFF'S VOLKSPOESIE. BY CHARLES G. LELAND. I. _Szeretlek, galambom._ Better far I love thee Than a dove the barley; Ever dreaming of thee, Night and morning early. Of no woman born, Such fays spring from the Rose; When on Whitsun morn, Her dewy breasts unclose! II. _Kocsmarosne, gyuijts vilagot!_ Hostess, quick! the light goes out, Have you no pretty girl about? But if no pretty girl there be The light may soon so out, for me Why should the candle burn and beam Unless bright eyes reflect its gleam?