It is not easy to classify the cultivated Roumanian writers of the present day, still less so is it to select appropriate specimens from their works. Roumanian literature is in a transition state at present, and, despite much talent and energy on the part of its representatives, has not as yet regained any fixed national character. Perhaps, indeed, it would be more correct to say that precisely the talent and energy of some of the most gifted writers have harmed Roumanian literature more than they have assisted it, by dragging into fashion a dozen different modes utterly incongruous with one another, and with the mainsprings of Roumanian thought and feeling. No doubt the custom of sending their children to be educated outside the country is much to blame for this; and, naturally enough, French poets have been imported into the land along with Parisian fashions. Béranger and Musset, along with Shakespeare, Goethe, Byron, and Heine, have all been abused in this manner by men who should have understood that the strength of any literature does not lie in the successful imitation of foreign models, however excellent, but rather in the intelligent exploitation of its own historical and artistic treasures. Even Basil Alexandri, the first and most national of Roumanian poets, sometimes falls unconsciously into this error, still more perceptible in the works of Rosetti, Negruzzi, and Cornea. Odobescu, Gane, Alexi, and Dunca have acquired some fame as writers of fiction; and Joan Slavici in particular may here be cited for his charming sketches of rural life, which have something of the force and delicacy of Turguenief’s hand. FET LOGOFET[29] (_literally_, YOUNG FOOLHARDY). Thou radiant young knight, With glance full of light, With golden-locked hair, Oh, turn thy proud steed; Of the forest take heed— The dragon lies there. Thou fairest of maids, With silken-like braids, So slender thy zone, My good sword will pierce The monster so fierce, And fear I have none. Thou wrestler, thou ranger, Thou seeker of danger, With eyes flashing fire; Thy fate will be dolesome; The dragon is loathsome, And fearful his ire. Thou coaxer, thou pleader, Thou sweet interceder, My star silver bright! Both dragon and drake, Before me they quake, And fly at my sight. Thou stealer of hearts, With golden-tipped darts, Yet list to my cry! Thou canst not escape, His open jaws gape, Turn water to sky! Thou angel-like child, With blue eyes so mild, Yet needst not to sigh; For this my good steed The wind can outspeed, And rear heaven-high! Oh, radiant young knight, With eyes full of light, That masterful shine; Oh, hark to my prayer, And do not go there— My heart it is thine!