back should arise, and revisit his jail; and the likeness of Howard might be placed in every prison, with the simple and expressive motto, Qualis, circumspice!-For, like the admirable Titus, whose "Perdidi diem" the zealous philanthropist could never truly utter, he richly deserves to be called amor, et delicia humani generis," the love, and the delight of the whole family of man.

66

KLOPSTOCK.

DWELL ye then round about us, cheering us
Alike in crowded haunts and solitude,

Warding from ill, and ministering good,
O bright and blessed Sabaoth,-is it thus?
Alas, what can we give of gratitude
Το your pure essences, that, o'er us each
Hovering, delight to love and aid and teach

Poor prisoners in the flesh ?-Yon sainted bard

Who sang Messiah, loved the happy thought, Praying that for his angel guide and guard

The spirit of his Meta might be brought E'en from the grave: O lover, didst thou err, It were an error with such sweetness fraught I too would ask an angel minister.

Cicero says of the immortality of the soul, that if it be an erroneous opinion, it is one so conducive to happiness, that he for one is content blindly to believe it. The question of the ministration of angels, the grounds of which are set on very strong foundations, is a similar case: and even if the scripture texts which seem to countenance the idea, can by possibility be explained otherwise, as referable merely to spiritual matters, or to another era of being, still one is glad, in an error of so happy and innocent a complexion, to walk in company with Socrates, Origen, Tertullian, Grotius, Andrews, Horne, Porteus, and Klopstock. With such suffrages, no one need be ashamed to confess his faith in the ministry of angels; truly with these "mallem errare." Of Friedrick Klopstock, whom Germany accounts her Milton, we know too little, owing chiefly to the mediocrity of our translation of his Messiah: the original work is a complete divine epic, and is written in hexameter verse. The death of his wife Margaret, whom he familiarly called Meta and Cidli, has given occasion to the poet to show his tenderness and religion in many beautiful pieces, and particularly in a series of letters to and from his "dear

espoused saint" after her decease: Elizabeth Rowe preceded him in this idea; but in Klopstock's case the charm consists in the reality of his grief, and the beautiful manner in which, happily selfdeceived, he drew consolation from those holy communings.

The writer appends a free version of two pretty lyrics from the poet to his beloved wife, and feels bound in fairness to state that for the prose translation from the German he is indebted to another.

TO CIDLI, ASLEEP.

She slumbers.-O blessed sleep, rain from thy wings
Thy life-giving balm on her delicate frame e;
And send thou from Eden's ambrosial springs
A few flashing drops of their crystallous flame,—

Then spread them, soft painter, upon her white cheek
Where sickness hath eaten the roses away;

Love's gentle refresher, Care's comforter meek,
Thou moon of sweet blessings, pour down the kindray

To smile on my Cidli: she sleeps,-O be still,

Hush'd be thy soft-flowing notes, O my lyre, Thy laurels mine anger shall scathe and shall kill,

If thou waken with murmurs my sleeping desire.

ON A LIKE OCCASION.

Asleep in the shade I found her:

With a garland of roses I bound her
She knew not what chain was around her
But slept with placid cheek:

I look'd on her; and my being

Was ravish'd with that sweet seeing,

I felt as if life was fleeing,

I felt, and could not speak.

I struggled to whisper, she heard not;
I shook the rose-garland,

she stirr'd not;

She woke from her beauteous sloth:

I look'd, and my heart it err'd not;

She look'd on me; and her being

Was ravish'd with that dear seeing;
We felt as if earth was fleeing,

And heaven about us both.