Bright as the sun his flowing hair

In golden ringlets shone;

And no one could with him compare,
If he had been alone.

His talents I can not rehearse,
But every one allows,
That whatsoe'er he wrote in verse,
No one could call it prose.

He argued with precision nice,
The learned all declare;
And it was his decision wise,
No horse could be a mare.

His powerful logic would surprise,
Amuse, and much delight:
He proved that dimness of the eyes
Was hurtful to the sight.

They liked him much-so it appears
Most plainly-who preferr'd him;
And those did never want their ears,
Who any time had heard him.

He was not always right, 'tis true,
And then he must be wrong;
But none had found it out, he knew,
If he had held his tongue.

Whene'er a tender tear he shed,
'Twas certain that he wept;
And he would lay awake in bed,
Unless, indeed, he slept.

In tilting everybody knew

His very high renown;
Yet no opponents he o'erthrew,

But those that he knock'd down.

At last they smote him in the head-
What hero e'er fought all?
And when they saw that he was dead,
They knew the wound was mortal.

And when at last he lost his breath,
It closed his every strife;
For that sad day that seal'd his death,
Deprived him of his life.

SCHNAPPS.

[THIS spirited translation from the German of Selber appeared anonymously in the Dublin University Magazine a few years ago.]

I'm rather slow at extravaganzas,

And what your poets call thunderclaps ;

I'll therefore spin you some sober stanzas Concerning nothing at all but Schnapps. And though my wisdom, like Sancho Panza's,

Consists entirely of bits and scraps,
I'll bet you fourpence that no man plans as
Intense a poem as I on Schnapps.

Schnapps, is you know, the genteelest liquid
That any tapster in Potsdam taps;
When you've tobacco, and chew a thick
quid,

You've still to grin for your glass of
Schnapps.

You then wax funny, and show your slick wit, And smash to smithers with kicks and

slaps

Whatever's next you-in Latin quicquidFor I quote Horace when lauding Schnapps.

[THIS amiable man and agreeable writer was born in 1740, at Reinfeldt in Holstein, near Lübeck. He lived for some time in Wandsbeck. In 1776, he was ap pointed to a public office in Darmstadt, but returned

stoppers

I still find room for a flask of Schnapps. My daily quantum is twenty croppers,

Or ten half-noggins;-but, when with chaps

Who, though good Schnappers, are no slipsloppers,

I help to empty a keg of Schnapps.

Being fifty, sixty, or therebetwixt, I

Guess many midnights cannot now elapse Before the hour comes in which my fixt eye Must look its last upon Earth and Schnapps.

SELBER.

SONG FOR PUNCH DRINKERS.

From the German of Schiller.

FOUR be the elements,

Here we assemble 'em, Each of man's world

And existence an emblem.

Press from the lemon

The slow-flowing juicesBitter is life

In its lessons and uses.

Bruise the fair sugar lumps-
Nature intended
Her sweet and severe

To be everywhere blended.

tributor to the "Wandsbeck Messenger." He died in 1818. A collection of his works, completed in 1812, was published under the title of "Asmus omnia sua secum portans, or the Collective Works of the Wands. beck Messenger." A new edition in four volumes was published at Hamburg in 1838.

The most prominent characteristic of Claudius, as a writer, is a certain simplicity and hearty good-humor. He wrote excellent popular songs, simple ballads, fables, epigrams, tales, and dialogues.]

A sparrow-hawk pounced on the sparrow Enjoying his repast; at once

He plunged his talons in his marrow.

Oh, let me go; what's the nonce?

'Oh!' says the murderer, 'not at all; For I am big, and you are small.'

An eagle spied the sport; and, lo!
Popp'd down to have a bit of dinner.
'Oh, please your majesty, let me go;
Have mercy on a worthless sinner.'
'not at all;
'Pooh!' says the murderer,
For I am big, and you are small.'

While yet the king the bones was picking,
An archer served him out his gruel;
An arrow in his gizzard sticking,

Made him exclaim, 'O dear, how cruel!' 'Tut,' quoth the archer, 'not at all; For I am big, and you are small.'

The moral is plain, ho! read it all :—
But ONE is big, all else is small.

A TRAGIC STORY.

From the German of Chamisso.

THERE lived a sage in days of yore,
And he a handsome pig-tail wore,
But wonder'd much and sorrow'd more,
Because it hung behind him.

He mused upon this curious case,

And swore he'd change the pig-tail's place. And have it hanging at his face,

Not dangling there behind him.

Says he, 'The mystery I have found-
I'll turn me round! '—he turn'd him round,
And stamp'd with rage upon the ground,
But still it hung behind him.

Then round and round, and out and in,
All day, the puzzled sage did spin;
In vain; it matter'd not a pin,

The pig-tail hung behind him.
And right and left and round about,
And up and down, and in and out
He turn'd, but still the pig-tail stout,

Hung steadily hehind him.

And though his efforts never slack,
And though he twist and twirl and tack,
Alas! still faithful to his back,

The pig-tail hangs behind him.

And thus its good or evil each enhances, As it may chance to suit their different fancies.

He who extols its worth, we always find Loves frequent naps, and after-dinner

snoozes ;

But he who is not drowsily inclined,

Old Morpheus, for the vilest god, abuses; As one who tow'rds the ladye of his mind The honey'd terms of admiration uses,Yet those who do not care a farthing for her, Despise her charms, or mention her with horror.

By some, in terms of glowing praise addrest, As rest to wearied mortals sent from

heav'n

Of all its gracious gifts esteem'd the best-
A brief oblivion to our sorrows given!
Others deny its virtues, and protest
Somnus from earth has every virtue
driven :

One calls him Son of Erebus,-another Swears he is nothing better than Death's brother.

Some say it keeps us healthy, and again, For sickness 'tis a soothing remedy; Others declare it stagnates every vein,

Making us, like the blood, creep lazily. All this may be, or not; but I maintain, When I am snoring, that I feel quite free From trouble or annoyance, and I hate A blockhead who disturbs that tranquil state.

Sleep can at least a truce to sorrow bring,
Altho' it may not conquer miseries,
For o'er our couch he spreads his dusky
wing,

And grief before its mighty power flies; And, as I somewhere heard a poet sing, 'Beggars and kings sleep soon can equalize;'

So, when asleep, perchance I am as good As any lord or prince of royal blood!

Nay, I am happier still, for I must own

My sleep is not disturb'd by constant fear That others may attack my wife, or throne, Or that the threat'ning Sultan marches

THE SCRIPTURAL PANORAMIST.

There was a fellow travelling around with a moral religious show-a sort of a scriptural panorama - and he hired a wooden-headed old slab to play the piano for him. After the first night's performance, the showman says:

"My friend, you seem to know pretty much all the tunes there are, and you worry along first-rate. But then didn't you notice that sometimes last night the piece you happened to be playing was a little rough on the proprieties, so to speak

didn't seem to jibe with the general gait of the picture that was passing at the time, as it were-was a little foreign to the subject, you know-as if you didn't either trump or follow suit, you understand?"

“Well, no,” the fellow said; "he hadn't noticed, but it might be; he had played along just as it came handy."

So they put it up that the simple old dummy was to keep his eye on the panorama after that, and as soon as a stunning picture was reeled out, he was to fit it to a dot with a piece of music that would help the audience to get the idea of the subject, and warm them up like a camp-meeting revival. That sort of thing would corral their sympathies, the show

man said.