SUMMER LONGINGS.

Las mañanas floridas

De Abril y Mayo.

CALDERON

АH! my heart is weary waiting,
Waiting for the May,
Waiting for the pleasant rambles,

Where the fragrant hawthorn brambles,
With the woodbine alternating,

Scent the dewy way.

Ah! my heart is weary waiting,
Waiting for the May.

Ah! my heart is sick with longing,

Longing for the May,

Longing to escape from study,

To the young face fair and ruddy,

And the thousand charms belonging
To the Summer's day.

Ah! my heart is sick with longing,

Longing for the May.

Ah! my heart is sore with sighing,
Sighing for the May,

Sighing for their sure returning,

When the summer beams are burning:

THE FISHER'S COTTAGE.

Hopes and flowers that, dead or dying,
All the Winter lay.

Ah! my heart is sore with sighing,

Sighing for the May.

Ah! my heart is pained with throbbing,
Throbbing for the May,
Throbbing for the seaside billows,

Or the water-wooing willows,

Where, in laughing and in sobbing,

Glide the streams away.

Ah! my heart, my heart is throbbing,
Throbbing for the May.

Waiting sad, dejected, weary,
Waiting for the May!

Spring goes by with wasted warnings,

Moonlit evenings, sunbright mornings ;
Summer comes- yet dark and dreary
Life still ebbs away.

Man is ever weary, weary,

Waiting for the May!

DENIS FLORENCE MCCARTHY.

THE FISHER'S COTTAGE.

WE sat by the fisher's cottage,
And looked at the stormy tide;
The evening mist came rising,
And floating far and wide.

THE FISHER'S COTTAGE.

One by one in the light-house
The lamps shone out on high;
And far on the dim horizon

A ship went sailing by.

We spoke of storm and shipwreck,
Of sailors, and how they live ;
Of journeys 'twixt sky and water,
And the sorrows and joys they give.

We spoke of distant countries,
In regions strange and fair;
And of the wondrous beings

And curious customs there:

Of perfumed lamps on the Ganges,

Which are launched in the twilight hour;
And the dark and silent Brahmins,
Who worship the lotus flower;

Of the wretched dwarfs of Lapland,
Broad-headed, wide-mouthed, and small,
Who crouch round their oil-fires, cooking,
And chatter and scream and bawl.

And the maidens earnestly listened,
Till at last we spoke no more;

The ship like a shadow had vanished,
And darkness fell deep on the shore.

HENRY HEINE. (German.)

Translation of CHARLES GODFREY LELAND.

THE night is wet and stormy,

The heavens are black above;

Through the woods, 'neath rustling branches, All silently I rove.

From the lonely hunter's cottage

A light beams cheerily ;

But it shall not tempt me thither
Where all is sad to see :

THE MERRY LARK WAS UP AND SINGING.

The blind old grandam is sitting
Alone, in her leathern chair,
Uncanny, and stern as an image,
And speaking to no one there;

The red-headed son of the hunter
Strides, cursing, up and down,
And flings in a corner his rifle,

With a bitter laugh and a frown;

A maiden is spinning and weeping,
And moist'ning the flax with tears,
While at her small feet, whimpering,
Lies a hound, with drooping ears.

Translation of CHARLES GODFREY LELAND.

HENRY HEINE. (German.)

THE MERRY LARK WAS UP AND SINGING.

THE merry, merry lark was up and singing,
And the hare was out and feeding on the lea,
And the merry, merry bells below were ringing,
When my child's laugh rang through me.

Now the hare is snared, and dead beside the snow-yard,
And the lark beside the dreary winter sea,

And my baby in his cradle in the churchyard
Waiteth there until the bells bring me.

CHARLES KINGSLEY.