fountains, flows out as in celestial music and diapason—which, also, like that other music of the spheres, even because it is perennial and complete, without interruption and without imperfection, might be fabled to escape the ear. Thus, too, in some languages, is the state of health well denoted by a term expressing unity; when we feel ourselves as we wish to be, we say that we are whole.'

But our psychal and social wholeness or health, as well as our physical, is yet, it would appear, in the future, in the good time coming—

'When man to man
Shall brothers be and a' that!'

Even that, however, is encouraging—that it is in prospectu. For we know that right before us lies this great promised land—this Future, teeming with all the donations of infinite time, and bursting with blessings. And for us, too, there are in waiting μακἁρων νἡσοι, or Islands of the Blest, where all heroic doers and all heroic sufferers shall enjoy rest forever!

In conclusion, take the benediction of serene old Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, in his preface to 'Don Quixote' (could we possibly have a better?): 'And so God give you health, not forgetting me. Farewell!'

THE CHECH.

"Chcés li tajnou véc aneb pravdu vyzvédéti, blazen, dité, opily ćlovék o tom umeji povedeti."

"Wouldst thou know a truth or mystery,
A drunkard, fool, or child may tell it thee."
Bohemian Proverb.

And now I'll wrap my blanket o'er me,
And on the tavern floor I'll lie;
A double spirit-flask before me,
And watch the pipe clouds melting die.

They melt and die—but ever darken,
As night comes on and hides the day;
Till all is black;—then, brothers, hearken!
And if ye can, write down my lay!

In yon black loaf my knife is gleaming,
Like one long sail above the boat;—
—As once at Pesth I saw it beaming,
Half through a curst Croatian throat.

Now faster, faster whirls the ceiling,
And wilder, wilder turns my brain;
And still I'll drink—till, past all feeling,
The soul leaps forth to light again.

Whence come these white girls wreathing round me?
Baruska!—long I thought thee dead!
Kacenka!—when these arms last bound thee,
Thou laidst by Rajhrad cold as lead!

Now faster, faster whirls the ceiling,
And wilder, wilder turns my brain;
And from afar a star comes stealing,
Straight at me o'er the death-black plain.

Alas!—I sink—my spirits miss me,
I swim, I shoot from sky to shore!
Klarà! thou golden sister—kiss me!
I rise—I'm safe—I'm strong once more.

And faster, faster whirls the ceiling,
And wilder, wilder turns my brain;
The star!—it strikes my soul, revealing
All life and light to me again.

Against the waves fresh waves are dashing,
Above the breeze fresh breezes blow;
Through seas of light new light is flashing,
And with them all I float and flow.

But round me rings of fire are gleaming:
Pale rings of fire—wild eyes of death!
Why haunt me thus awake or dreaming?
Methought I left ye with my breath.

Aye glare and stare with life increasing,
And leech-like eyebrows arching in;
Be, if ye must, my fate unceasing,
But never hope a fear to win.

He who knows all may haunt the haunting,
He who fears nought hath conquered fate;
Who bears in silence quells the daunting,
And sees his spoiler desolate.

Oh wondrous eyes of star-like lustre,
How ye have changed to guardian love!
Alas!—where stars in myriads cluster
Ye vanish in the heaven above.

I hear two bells so softly singing:
How sweet their silver voices roll!
The one on yonder hill is ringing,
The other peals within my soul.

I hear two maidens gently talking,
Bohemian maidens fair to see;
The one on yonder hill is walking,
The other maiden—where is she?

Where is she?—when the moonlight glistens
O'er silent lake or murm'ring stream,
I hear her call my soul which listens:
'Oh! wake no more—come, love, and dream!'

She came to earth-earth's loveliest creature;
She died—and then was born once more;
Changed was her race, and changed each feature,
But oh! I loved her as before.

We live—but still, when night has bound us
In golden dreams too sweet to last,
A wondrous light-blue world around us,
She comes, the loved one of the Past.

I know not which I love the dearest,
For both my loves are still the same;
The living to my heart is nearest,
The dead love feeds the living flame.

And when the moon, its rose-wine quaffing
Which flows across the Eastern deep,
Awakes us, Klarà chides me laughing,
And says, 'We love too well in sleep!'

And though no more a Vojvod's daughter,
As when she lived on Earth before,
The love is still the same which sought her,
And she is true—what would you more?

Bright moonbeams on the sea are playing,
And starlight shines o'er vale and hill;
I should be gone—yet still delaying,
By thy loved side I linger still!

My gold is gone—my hopes have perished,
And nought remains save love for thee!
E'en that must fade, though once so cherished: