THE GIPSY LOVER.

ID vas a schwartz Zigeuner,
Dot on a viddle blayed,
Und onderneat a vinder
He mak't a serenade.

Dot vas a lofely Gountess

Who heard de gipsy blayin'; Said she, "Who mak't de musik, Vot sound so wunder schéen ?"

Dot vas de schwartz Zigeuner

Who vas fery quick to twig,

Und he singt a lofe-balladé,

How his hearts vas proken-pig!

Dot vas de lofely Gountess,

Who ask him, "Who you are?” He saidt, "Mein name ist Yànosh,

De Lord of Temesvár !"

Dot vas de lofely Gountess

Saidt, "Come more near to me,

I vants to dalk on pusiness,

Und I'll trow you down de key!"

Dot vas de moon kept lighten

De Gountess in her room,
Boot someding moost hafe vriten,
De minsdrel tid not coom.

Dot vas a tredful oudgry,

Ven early in de morn

Dey foundt de hens vas missin',
Und all de Wasch' vas gone!

Dot vas a schwartz Zigeuner
Vot sat oopon de dirt,
A-eadin' roasted schickens—

All in a new glean shirt!

CHARLES G. Leland.

IRVING'S MEPHISTOPHELES.

WHEN the grey shapes of dread, adoring, fall
Before the Red One towering o'er them all,
The one whose voice and gesture, face and form,
Proclaim the Prince of the unhallowed storm :
Who stands unmoved amid the fiery tide
And rain of flame that sweep the mountain-side,
Then, as the ribald pageant fades from view
We think the Fiend himself commands the crew.

But when the mask is down, and when a smile
Wreaths the dark face, and flattering words beguile
When, whimsical, half careless of deceiving,
He plays upon the student's fond believing,
When, from beneath the Cavalier's disguise,

The Snake unveils the menace of his eyes,

When, with a far-off ring of his despair,

His terrifying laughter fills the air,

Then, more than in the Brocken's maddening revel,

We seem to see and hear the living Devil.

W. H. P.

MISS ELLEN TERRY'S GRETCHEN.

MAID of haviour demure,

All that's sweet and all that's pure;

Girl awakening to love

As to message from above;

Scarce aware that aught is evil,

Sainthood's horror of the Devil;

Misery heaped on misery

When the fiend has conquered thee;

Truth of spirit, truth of heart,

Overmastering Satan's art;

When the fatal sword should fall

True to Heaven in spite of all;

Joy made perfect in a sigh,

Sorrow's very ecstasy;

Though the Poem's stress and storm

Reach us in an alien form,

Goethe's passion, Goethe's will,

Find we in thy Gretchen still.

W. H. P.

TO OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

The first lines, by Oliver Wendell Holmes, were rendered into Latin by S. L.; the Greek version was made from the Latin by A. S., the second English version from the Greek by A. L., and so on to the end.

CALL him not old whose visionary brain
Holds o'er the past its undivided reign;
For him in vain the envious seasons roll,
Who bears eternal summer in his soul.
If yet the minstrel's song, the poet's lay,
Spring with her birds, or children with their play,
Or maiden's smile, or heavenly dream of art,
Stir the few life-drops creeping round his heart-
Turn to the record where his years are told-
Count his grey hairs-they cannot make him old!

O. W. H.