And when he's a great man, a poet, you see,
O dear! what a proud little sister I'll be;

Hark! there comes the carriage. We're off, Dick and me.

THE SENTIMENTAL GARDENER.
Translation of JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.

Once there was a gardener,

Who sang all day a dirge to his poor flowers;
He often stooped and kissed 'em

After thunder-showers:

His nerves were delicate, though fresh air is deemed a hardener

Of the human system.

Many a moon went over,

And still his death-bell 'tale was told and tolled,—
His tears, like rain in winter,
Dribbling slow and cold:

Voici the song itself,—I send it under cover

To my Leipsic printer.

"Weary, I am weary!

No rest from raking till I reach my goal!

Here, like a tulip trampled,

Lose I heart and soul;

Sure such a death-in-life as mine, so dark, so

dreary,

Must be unexampled.

"Hence, when droughty weather Has dulled the spirits of my violets, Medreams I feel as though I

Should have slight regrets

Were they and I just then to droop and die together,

Watched and wept by no eye.

"O gazelle-eyed Princess! Granddaughter of the Sultan of Cathay! The knave of spades beseeches

Thee by night and day:

He dies to lay before thee samples of his quinces, Apricots and peaches!

"Questionless thy Highness

Must wonder why I play the Absent Man;
Yet if I pitch my lonely

Tent in Frankistan,

Attribute, O full moon! the blame, not to my

shyness,

But to my planet only.

"But enough-Il souber

My groanings, and myself. Were I free

Rix baron, or a Markgrate.

I would fly to thee:

But since―alas, my stars!—I'm neither one nor t'other.

Here I'll dig—my dark grave."

LITTLE GRETCHEN.

Little Gretchen, little Gretchen wanders up and down the street;

The snow is on her yellow hair, the frost is on her

feet.

The rows of long, dark houses without look cold and damp,

By the struggling of the moonbeam, by the flicker of the lamp.

The clouds ride fast as horses, the wind is from the north,

But no one cares for Gretchen, and no one looketh forth.

Within those dark, damp houses are merry faces

bright,

And happy hearts are watching out the old year's latest night.

With the little box of matches she could not sell

all day,

And the thin, tattered mantle the wind blows

every way,

She clingeth to the railing, she shivers in the gloom,

There are parents sitting snugly by the firelight

in the room;

And children with grave faces are whispering one

another

Of presents for the new year, for father or for

mother.

But no one talks to Gretchen, and no one hears her speak,

No breath of little whisperers comes warmly to

her cheek.

Her home is cold and desolate; no smile, no food, no fire,

But children clamorous for bread, and an impatient sire.

So she sits down in an angle where two great houses meet,

And she curleth up beneath her for warmth her little feet;