drawing-room as at the Louvre or Florentine Gallery, and for the same reason. "You may be hurt by a blow," said she, to one of flesh and blood; "but I should be broken to pieces: and how could I be mended?"--_Best's Mems._ * * * * * SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS THE FOREIGN REVIEW, NO. IX. More than one acknowledgment is due from us to this excellent work, although the publishers may doubt our sincerity by our selecting the following interesting Ballad, from the German of Christian Count Stolberg; which, observes the reviewer, "is by some considered the poet's best effort, and a translation is therefore here attempted:"-- ELIZA VON MANSFIELD. A BALLAD OF THE TENTH CENTURY. "Still night! how many long for thee! Now while I wake to weep, O thou to them hast comfort brought, Repose and gentle sleep. Wished too, thou comest to me; now I Am lonely, and am free, And with my many sighs profound May ease my misery. Alas! what evil have I done They treat me so severely? My father always called me his _Good_ child whom he loved dearly. My dying mother on my head Poured her best blessings forth: It may in heaven be fulfill'd, But surely not on earth! Change not this blessing to a curse For those who me offend. O God! forgive them what they do, And cause them to amend. Ah, I with patience might bear all, If, Love, thou wouldst not be, Thou who consumest my troubled heart With hopeless agony! If now, while one sweet hope remains, I cannot this endure; Thou breakest then, poor heart. So, 'till Thou breakest, hold it sure." Meanwhile, sweeps on a knightly man, Upon his gallant steed, And reaches, guided by the path, The castle bridge, with speed. There deeply sank into his heart, The plaint of the ladye, He deems she pleads to him for help, And will her saviour be. Full of impatience and desire, His glowing eyes ranged round, Till high, within the window, they The lovely lady found. "Ah! lady, speak, why mournest thou? Confide thy grief to me, And to thy cause this sword, this arm, This life, devoted be!" "Ah! noble knight, nor sword, nor arm I need, right well I wot, But comfort for my sorrowing heart. And, ah, that thou hast not!" "Let me partake thy saddening woe. That will divide thy grief. My tear of pity will bestow Both comfort and relief." "Thou good kind youth, then hear my tale; An orphan I, sir knight, And with my parents did expire My peace and my delight An uncle and an aunt are now To me in parents' stead, Who wound my heart, (God pardon it!) As if they wished me dead. My father was a wealthy Count: The inheritance now mine-- Would I were poor! this wretched wealth 'Tis makes me to repine.