Blasts of adversity and frosts of fate!

But the first ray of sunshine that falls on thee

Melts thee to tears!

Oh, let thy weary heart

Lean upon mine! and it shall faint no more,

Nor thirst, nor hunger; but be comforted
And filled with my affection.

PRECIOSA.

Stay no longer!

My father waits.

Methinks I see him there,

Now looking from the window, and now watching
Each sound of wheels or foot-fall in the street,
And saying, "Hark! she comes !" O father! father!
CHISPA remains behind.)

(They descend the pass.

CHISPA.

I have a father, too, but he is a dead one. Alas and alack-a-day! Poor was I born, and poor do I remain. I neither win nor lose. Thus I wag through the world, half the time on foot, and the other half walking; and always as merry as a thunder-storm in the night. And so we plough along, as the fly said to the ox. Who knows what may happen? Patience, and shuffle the cards! I am not yet so bald, that you can see my brains; and perhaps, after all, I shall some day go to Rome, and come back Saint Peter. Benedicite!

(A pause.

[Exit.

Then enter BARTOLOMÉ wildly, as if in pursuit, with a carbine in his hand.)

BARTOLOMÉ.

They passed this way! I hear their horses' hoofs ! Yonder I see them! Come, sweet caramillo,

This serenade shall be the Gipsy's last!

(Fires down the pass.)

Ha ha! Well whistled, my sweet caramillo !

Well whistled !I have missed her !—Oh, my God! (The shot is returned. BARTOLOMÉ falls.)

TRANSLATIONS.

THE

CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER.

FROM THE SWEDISH OF BISHOP TEGNÉR.

[THE Children of the Lord's Supper, from the Swedish of Bishop Tegnér, enjoys no inconsiderable reputation in the North of Europe, and for its beauty and simplicity merits the attention of English readers. It is an idyl, descriptive of scenes in a Swedish village; and belongs to the same class of poems as the Luise of Voss, and the Hermann und Dorothea of Göthe. But the Swedish poet has been guided by a surer taste than his German predecessors. His tone is pure and elevated; and he rarely, if ever, mistakes what is trivial for what is simple.

There is something patriarchal still lingering about rural life in Sweden, which renders it a fit theme for song. Almost primeval simplicity reigns over that Northern land, almost primeval solitude and stillness. You pass out from the gate of the city, and, as if by magic, the scene changes to a wild woodland landscape. Around you are forests of fir. Overhead hang the long, fan-like branches, trailing with moss, and heavy with red and blue cones. Under foot is a carpet of yellow leaves; and the air is warm and balmy. On a wooden bridge you cross a little silver stream, and anon come forth into a pleasant and sunny land of farms. Wooden fences divide the adjoining fields. Across the road are gates, which are opened by troops of children. The peasants take off their hats as you pass; you sneeze, and they cry, "God bless you!" The houses in the villages and smaller towns are all built of hewn timber, and for the most part painted red. The floors of the taverns are strewn with the fragrant tips of fir-boughs. In many villages there are no taverns, and the peasants take turns in receiving travellers. The thrifty housewife shews you into the best chamber, the walls of which are hung round with rude pictures from the Bible; and brings

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