Who works gives blessings and commands; Kings glory in the orb and crown—

Be ours the glory of our hands.

7. Long in these walls-long may we greet Your footfalls, Peace and Concord sweet! Distant the day, oh! distant far,

8.

When the rude hördes of trampling War,
Shall scare the silent vale:

And where,

Now the sweet heaven, when day doth leave
The air,

Limns its soft rose-hues on the vail of Eve; Shall the fierce war-brand tossing in the gale, From town and hamlet shake the horrent glare!

Now, its destined task fulfilled,

Asunder break the prison-mold;

Let the goodly bell we build,

Eye and heart alike behold.

The hammer down heave, 'till the cover it cleave; For not till we shatter the wall of its cell

Can we lift from its darkness and bondage the bell.
To break the mold, the Master may,

If skilled the hand and ripe the hour;
But woe, when on its fiery way
The metal seeks itself to pōur.
Frantic and blind with thunder-knell,
Exploded from its shattered home,
And glaring forth, as from a hell,

Behold the red Destruction come!

9. When rages strength that has no reason,
There breaks the mold before the season;
When numbers burst what bound before,
Woe to the State that thrives no more!
Yea, woe, when in the city's heart,
The latent spark to flame is blown ;
And from their thrall the millions start,
No leader but their rage to own!
Discordant howls the warning bell,

10.

11.

Proclaiming discord wide and far,
And born but things of peace to tell,
Becomes the ghastliëst voice of war:
"Freedom! Equality!" to blood,

Rush the roused people at the sound!
Through street, hall, palace, rõars the flood,
And banded murder closes round!"

The hyena-shapes (that women were!)

Jest with the horrors they survey;
From human breasts the hearts they tear-
As panthers rend their prey!
Naught rests to hallow;-burst the ties
Of Shame's religious, noble awe;
Before the Vice the Virtue flies,
And Universal Crime is Law;
Man fears the lion's kingly tread;
Man fears the tiger's fangs of terror;
But man himself is most to dread,
When mad with social error.

No torch, though lit from Heaven, illumes
The Blind!—Why place it in his hand?
It lights not him—it but consumes
The City and the Land!

Rejoice and laud the prospering skies!
The kernel bursts its husks-behold
From the dull clay the metal rise,

Pure-shining, as a star of gold!

Rim and crown glitter bright, like the sun's flash of light. And even the scutcheon, clear-graven shall tell

That the art of a master has fashioned the bell!

Come in-come in

My merry men-we'll form a ring,

The new-born labor christening;

And "CONCORD" we will name her!—

To union may her heartfelt call

In brother-love attune us all!

May she the děstined glōry win

For which the master sought to frame her

12..

13.

Aloft (all earth's existence under),
In blue pavilioned heaven afar
To dwell—the neighbor of the thunder,
The borderer of the star!

Be hers above a voice to raise

'Like those bright hosts in yonder sphere,
Who while they move, their Maker praise,
And lead around the wreathed year.
To solemn and eternal things

We dedicate her lips sublime,
As hourly, calmly, on she swings,
Touching with every movement, Time!
No pulse-no heart-no feeling hers,
She lends the warning voice to Fate;
And still companions, while she stirs,
The changes of the human state!
So may she teach us, as her tone,
But now so mighty, melts away-

That earth no life which earth has known
From the last silence can delay.

Slowly now the cords upheave her!

From her earth-grave sōars the bell;
Mid the airs of heaven we leave her,

In the music-realm to dwell.

Up-upward—yet raise—

She has risen-she sways.

Fair Bell, to our city bode joy and increase;

And oh, may thy first sound be hallowed to-PEACE!1

SCHILLER-LYTTON's translation.

JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDRICH VON SCHILLER, a German poet, dramatist, and historian, was born in Marbach, Würtemberg, November 10, 1759, and died in Weimar, May 9, 1805. His worthiest prose production, "History of the Thirty Years' War," published in 1791, is probably the best historical performance of which Germany can boast. His greatest literary success, the drama of " Wallenstein," appeared in 1799. "William Tell," his most popular dramatic production, was published in 1804. Though probably the real founder of the German drama, he is best known by his ballads and lyric poems.

1 Peace, the prayer at the end, breathed the wish of all Germany

when the poem was written-during the four years' war with France.

SECTION XX.

I.

88. COUNTESS LAURA.

PART FIRST.

T was a dreary day in Pădʼuä.

IT

The countèss Laura, for a single year
Fernando's wife, upon her bridal bed,
Like an uprooted lily on the snow,
The withered outcast of a festival,

Lay dead. She died of some uncertain ill,
That struck her almost on her wedding-day,
And clung to her, and dragged her slowly down,
Thinning her cheeks and pinching her full lips,
Till, in her change, it seemed that with a year
Full half a century was overpast.

2. In vain had Paracelsus' taxed his art,
And feigned a knowledge of her malady;
In vain had all the doctors, far and near,
Gathered around the mystery of her bed,
Draining her veins, her husband's treasury,
And physic's jargon, in a fruitless quest
For causes equal to the dread result.

The countess only smiled, when they were gone,
Hugged her fair body with her little hands,
And turned upon her pillows wearily,

As if she fain would sleep, no common sleep,
But the long, breathless slumber of the grave.
She hinted nothing. Feeble as she was,
The rack could not have rung her secret out.

1 Paracelsus, a Swiss alchemist and empiric, born in 1493, and died Sept. 23, 1541. The son of a physician, he received an irregular education, the defects of which he managed to conceal or supply by remarkable self-possession and assur

ance. With all his absurdities, he taught some true principles with regard to the use of opium, mercury, sulphur, antimony, and arsenic, and was the first to introduce chemical remedies into the dispensatory. His writings are still extant.

3. The Bishop, when he shrived her, coming fōrth, Cried, in a voice of heavenly ecstacy,

"O blessed soul! with nothing to confess,
Save virtues and good deeds, which she mistakes—
So humble is she-for our human sins!"
Praying for death, she tossed upon her bed,
Day after day-as might a shipwrecked bark
That rocks upon one billow, and can make
No onward motion toward her pōrt of hope.
At length, one morn, when those around her said,
"Surely the countess mends, so fresh a light
Beams from her eyes
and beautifies her face".

One morn in spring, when every flower of earth
Was opening to the sun, and breathing up
Its votive' incense, her impatient soul

Opened itself, and so exhaled to heaven.

4. Wher the count heard it, he reeled back a pace;
Then turned with anger on the messenger;
Then craved his pardon, and wept out his heart
Before the meniäl: tears, ah, me! such tears
As Love sheds only, and Love only once.
Then he bethought him, "Shall this wonder die
And leave behind no shadōw? not a trace

5.

Of all the glory that environed her,

That mellow nimbus circling round my star?"
So, with his sorrow glooming in his face,

He paced along his gallery of art,

And strode amongst the painters, where they stood,

With Carlo, the Venetian, at their head,

Studying the Masters by the dawning light

Of his transcendent genius.

Through the groups

Of gayly vestured artists moved the count―
As some lone cloud of thick and leaden hue,
Packed with the secret of a coming storm,
Moves through the gold and crimson evening mists,
Deadening their splendor. In a moment, still

1 Vō' tive, given by vow; devoted.