Scarcely pranks her infant minions ere, alas! they droop and tarnish.

Even though bare of all their beauty, scentless, rayless, leafless, chauntless.

The rhymes of the following fall pleasantly on the ear.

Light and Shadow.

The German's Fatherland.

Where is the German's Fatherland?
Is't Prussia? Swabia? Is't the strand

Where grows the vine, where flows the Rhine?
Is't where the gull skims Baltic's brine?
-No!-yet more great and far more grand
Must be the German's Fatherland!

How call they then the German's land?
Bavaria? Brunswick? Hast thou scanned
It where the Zuyder Zee extends?
Where Styrian toil the iron bends?
—No, brother, no!—thou hast not spanned
The German's genuine Fatherland!

Is then the German's Fatherland
Westphalia? Pomerania? Stand
Where Zurich's waveless water sleeps ;
Where Weser winds, where Danube sweeps:
Hast found it now? Not yet! Demand
Elsewhere the German's Fatherland!

Then say, Where lies the German's land ?
How call they that unconquered land?
Is't where the Tyrol's mountains rise?
The Switzer's land I dearly prize,
By Freedom's purest breezes fanned-
But no! 'tis not the German's land!

Where, therefore, lies the German's land?
Baptize that great, that ancient land!
'Tis surely Austria, proud and bold,
In wealth unmatched, in glory old?
O! none shall write her name on sand;
But she is not the German's land!

Say then, Where lies the German's land?
Baptize that great, that ancient land!
Is't Alsace? Or Lorraine-that gem
Wrenched from the Imperial Diadem,
By wiles which princely treachery planned?
No! these are not the German's land!

Where, therefore, lies the German's land?
Name now at last that mighty land!
Where'er resounds the German tongue-
Where German hymns to God are sung-
There, gallant brother, take thy stand!
That is the German's Fatherland!

That is his land, the land of lands,
Where vows bind less than clasped hands,
Where Valour lights the flashing eye,
Where Love and Truth in deep hearts lie,
And Zeal enkindles Freedom's brand,
That is the German's Fatherland!

That is the German's Fatherland

Where Hate pursues each foreign band→→ Where German is the name for friend, Where Frenchman is the name for fiend, And France's yoke is spurned and bannedThat is the German's Fatherland!'

That is the German's Fatherland!

Great God, look down and bless that land!

And give her noble children souls
To cherish while Existence rolls
And love with heart, and aid with hand,
Their Universal Fatherland!

Passing from patriotism to metaphysics, as a man escapes from a house on fire into an alley full of smoke, we submit for general praise a morceau by

John Frederick Castelli, author of the popular drama, The Orphan and the Murderer. He must have been a very select wag.

The Metempsychosis.

I've studied sundry treatises by spectacled old sages
Anent the capabilities and nature of the soul, and
Its vagabond propensities from even the earliest ages,

As harped on by Spinosa, Plato, Leibnitz, Chubb and Toland;
But of all systems I've yet met, or p'rhaps shall ever meet with,
Not one can hold a candle to (videlicet, compete with)

The theory of theories Pythagoras proposes,

And called by that profound old snudge (in Greek) Miriu↓uxwois.

It seems to me a pos'tive truth, admitting of no modi-
Fication, that the human soul, accustomed to a lodging
Inside a carnal tenement, must, when it quits one body,
Instead of sailing to and fro, and profitlessly dodging
About from post to pillar without either pause or purpose,
Seek out a habitation in some other cozy corpus,

And when, by luck, it pops on one with which its habits match, box
Itself therein instanter, like a sentry in a watch-box..

This may be snapped at, sueered at, sneezed at. Deuce may care for cavils.
Reason is reason. Credit me, I've met at least one myriad

Of instances to prop me up. I've seen (upon my travels)

Foxes who had been lawyers at (no doubt) some former period.
Innumerable apes, who, though they'd lost their patronymics,
I recognised immediately as mountebanks and mimics,
And asses, calves, etcet'ra, whose rough bodies gave asylum
To certain souls, the property of learn'd professors whilome.

To go on with my catalogue: what will you bet I've seen a
Goose, that was reckoned in her day a pretty-faced young woman?
But more than that, I knew at once a bloody-lipped hyena

To've been a Russian Marshal, or an ancient Emperor (Roman)
All snakes and vipers, toads and reptiles, crocodiles and crawlers

I set down as court sycophants or hypocritic bawlers,

And there I may've been right or wrong-but nothing can be truer

Than this, that in a scorpion I beheld a vile reviewer.

*The transmigration of the souls of princesses into the bodies of owls has always been a matter of course; upon what principle it is not easy to divine.

like to see a commentary on the old ballad beginning

I was once a monarch's dochter,

Ande satte on a ladye's knee;
Yet I'm now a nyghtlie rover,
Banisht to the ivie-tree.

Cryinge, Hoo hoo, hoo hoo, hoo hoo,
Hoo hoo hoo, my feete are colde;

Pitye me, for here you see me

Persecuted, poore ande olde.

We should

So far we've had no stumbling-block. But now a puzzling question
Arises all the afore-named souls were souls of stunted stature,
Contemptible or cubbish-but Pythag. has no suggestion

Concerning whither transmigrate souls noble in their nature,
As Homer, Dante, Shakspeare, Schiller-these now, for example,
What temple can be found for such appropriately ample?
Where lodge they now? Not, certes, in our present ninnyhammers,
Who mumble rhymes that seem to've been concocted by their Gammars.

Well, then, you see, it comes to this-and after huge reflection
Here's what I say: A soul that gains, by many transmigrations,
The summit, apex, pinnacle or acmé of perfection,

There ends, concludes and terminates its earthly per'grinations.
Then, like an air-balloon, it mounts through high Olympus' portals,
And cuts its old connections with Mortality and mortals;
And evidence to back me here I don't know any stronger

Than that the truly Great and Good are found on Earth no longer.

We observe, in this volume, Leopold Count Stolberg's little song, Das Grab. We like it rather better than Count Salis's equally little song, Das Grab. The Grab of Count Kalchberg (given

in a former Anthology) is somewhat longer than either, but wants the repose of Salis's, and the depth of Stolberg's.

Too soon the goddess takes to flight,
And leaves behind the wrangling shrew ;
And oh! the bosom snowy white,

The laughing lips of purple hue,

That fascinating form and face

A stranger-spoiler's prey become,
And all derision and disgrace

Complete our crown of martyrdom.

Then, youths and men, distrust the Fair!
Deep, seadeep, is their smooth deceit ;
Their beauty is a dazzling snare,
Their love, at best, a bitter sweet.

Of a very different order from this is the advice given by the greatest of the German poets, in a poem too long

for transcription here, but from which we borrow the first stanza. Hearken to Schiller.

Ehret die Frauen! Sie flechten und weben
Himmlische Rosen ins irdische Leben,
Flechten der Liebe beglückendes Band,
Und, in der Grazie züchtigem Schleier,
Nähren sie wachsa.n das ewige Feuer
Schöner Gefühle mit heiliger Hand.

Reverence Woman! She garlands the bowers
Of earthly existence with heavenly flowers;
Apparelled in Modesty's vestal attire,
She winningly weaves each affectionate band,
And heedfully nurtures the long-living fire
Of beautiful Feeling with holiest hand.

To return to the volume before us. carded here to the extent of a page Poor Kotzebue, we perceive, is pla- and a quarter.

Be Merry and Wise.

No beauty, no glory remaineth
Below the unbribable skies:
All Beauty but winneth and waneth-
All Glory but dazzles and dies.

Since multitudes cast in a gay mould
Before us have lived and have laughed
To the slumberers under the claymould
Let goblet on goblet be quaffed!

For millions in centuries after

Decay shall have crumbled our bones,
As lightly with revel and laughter
Will fill their progenitors' thrones.

Here banded together in union
Our bosoms are joyous and gay.
How blest, could our festive communion
Remain to enchant us for aye!

But Change is omnipotent ever;
Thus knitted we cannot remain ;
Wide waves and high hills will soon sever
The links of our brotherly chain.