THE DIVER,

A BALLAD TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN

"WHERE is the man who will dive for his King,
In the pool as it rushes with turbulent sweep?
A cup from this surf-beaten jetty I fling,
And he who will seek it below in the deep,
And will bring it again to the light of the day.
As the meed of his valour shall bear it away.
"Now courage, my knights, and my warriors bold,
For, one, two, and three, and away it shall go-❞
He toss'd, as he said it, the goblet of gold
Deep, deep in the howling abysses below.-
"Where is the hero who ventures to brave
The whirl of the pool, and the break of the wave?"
The steel-coated lancemen, and nobles around,
Spoke not, but they trembled in silent surprise,
And pale they all stood on the cliff's giddy bound,
And no one would venture to dive for the prize.
"Three times have I spoke, but no hero will spring
And dive for the goblet, and dive for the King.'
But still they were silent and pale as before,
Till a brave son of Eirin, in venturous pride,
Dash'd forth from the lancemen's trembling corps,
And canted his helm, and his mantle aside,
While spearman, and noble, and lady and knight,
Gazed on the bold stripling in breathless affright.
Unmoved by the thoughts of his horrible doom,
He mounted the cliff-and he paus'd on his leap,
For the waves which the pool had imbibed in its womb
Were spouted in thunder again from the deep,-
Yes! as they return'd, their report was as loud
As the peal when it bursts from the storm-riven cloud.
It roar'd, and it drizzled, it hiss'd and it whirl'd,
And it bubbled like water when mingled with flame,
And columns of foam to the heaven were hurl'd,
Aud billow on billow tumultuously came;

It seem'd that the womb of the ocean would bear
Sea over sea to the uppermost air.

It thunder'd again as the wave gather'd slow,
And black from the drizzling foam as it fell
The mouth of the fathomless tunnel below
Was seen like the pass to the regions of hell;
The waters roll round it, and gather and boom,
And then all at once disappear in the gloom.

And now ere the waves had returned from the deep,

The youth wiped the sweat-drops which hung on his brows,
And he plunged-and the cataracts over him sweep,
And a shout from his terrified comrades arose;

And then there succeeded a horrible pause

For the whirlpool had clos'd its mysterious jaws.

And stiller it grew on the watery waste,
In the womb of the ocean it bellow'd alone,
The knights said their Aves in terrified haste,
And crowded each pinnacle, jetty, and stone,

"The high-hearted stripling is whelm'd in the tide, Ah! wail him," was echoed from every side.

"If the monarch had buried his crown in the pool
And said: He shall wear it who brings it again,'
I would not have been so insensate a fool
As to dive when all hope of returning were vain;
What heaven conceals in the gulfs of the deep,
Lies buried for ever, and there it must sleep."
Full many a burden the whirlpool had borne,
And spouted it forth on the drizzling surge,
But nought but a mast that was splinter'd and torn,
Or the hull of a vessel was seen to emerge,
But wider and wider it opens its jaws,

And louder it gurgles, and louder it draws.

It drizzled, it thunder'd, it hiss'd and it whirl'd,
And it bubbled like water when mingled with flame,
And columns of foam to the heaven were hurl'd,
And flood upon flood from the deep tunnel came,
And then with a noise like the storm from the North,
The hellish eruption was vomited forth.

But, ah! what is that on the wave's foamy brim,
Disgorged with an ocean of wreck and of wood,
'Tis the snow-white arm and the shoulder of him
Who daringly dived for the glittering meed :
"Tis he, 'tis the stripling so hardy and bold,
Who swings in his left hand the goblet of gold.
He draws a long breath as the breaker he leaves,
Then swims through the water with many a strain,
While all his companions exultingly heave
Their voices above the wild din of the main,
""Tis he, O! 'tis he, from the horrible hole
The brave one has rescued his body and soul."
He reach'd the tall jetty, and kneeling he laid
The massy gold goblet in triumph and pride
At the foot of the monarch, who instantly made
A sign to his daughter who stood by his side:
She fill'd it with wine, and the youth with a spring
Received it, and quaff'd it, and turn'd to the King.

Long life to the monarch! how happy are they
Who breathe and exist in the sun's rosy light,
But he who is doom'd in the ocean to stray,
Views nothing around him but horror and night;
Let no one henceforward be tempted like me
To pry in the secrets contain❜d in the sea.

I felt myself seized, with the quickness of thought
The whirlpool entomb'd me in body and limb,
And billow on billow tumultuously brought
It's cataracts o'er me; in vain did I swim,
For like a mere pebble with horrible sound
The force of the double stream twisted me round.
But God in his mercy, for to him alone
In the moment of danger I ever have clung,
Did bear me towards a projection of stone:
1 seized it in transport, and round it I hung,
The goblet lay too on a corally ledge,
Which jutted just over the cataract's edge.

And then I look'd downward, and horribly deep,
And twinkling sheen in the darkness below,
And though to the hearing it ever might sleep,
Yet still the eye clouded with terror might know,
That serpents and creatures that made my blood cool,
Were swimming and splashing about in the pool.
Ball'd up to a mass, in a moment uncoil'd
They rose, and again disappear'd in the dark,
And down in the billows which over them boil'd
I saw a behemoth contend with a shark;
The sounds of their hideous duel awaken

The black-bellied whale, and the slumbering craken.
Still, still did I linger forlorn, and oppress'd
With a feeling of terror that curdled my blood;
Ah think of a human and sensible breast
Enclosed with the hideous shapes of the flood;
Still, still did I linger, but far from the reach
Of those that I knew would await on the beach.
Methought that a serpent towards me did creep,
And trailing behind him whole fathoms of length,
He open'd his jaws; and I dropp'd from the steep
Round which I had clung with expiring strength:
'Twas well that I did so, the stream bore me up,
And here is thy servant, and there is the cup."
He then was retiring, a look from the King
Detain'd him: "My hero, the cup is thine own,
'Tis richly thy meed, but I'll give thee this ring,
Beset with a diamond and chrysolite stone,
If again thou wilt dive, and discover to me
What's hid in the deepest abyss of the sea."

The daughter heard that with compassionate thought,
Quick, quick to the feet of the monarch she flew:
"O father, desist from this horrible sport,

He has done what no other would venture to do,
If the life of a creature thou fain must destroy,
Let a noble take place of this generous boy."
The monarch has taken the cup in his hand,
And tumbled it down in the bellowing sea;
"And if thou canst bring it again to the strand,
The first, and the best of my knights thou shalt be:
If that will not tempt thee, this maid thou shalt wed,

And share as a husband the joys of her bed."

Then the pride of old Eirin arose in his look,
And it flash'd from his eye-balls courageously keen,
One glance on the beautiful vision he took,

And he saw her change colour, and sink on the green.
"By the stool of Saint Peter the prize I'll obtain ;”
He shouted, and instantly dived in the main.
The waters sunk down, and a thundering peal
Announced that the time of their sojourn was o'er;
Each eye is cast downward in terrified zeal,
As forth from the tunnel the cataracts pour.
The waters rush up, and the waters subside,
But ah! the bold diver remains in the tide.

G. O. B.

"OUT OF TOWN," AND NOT "IN THE COUNTRY." MAHOMET'S Coffin, hanging in the air between heaven and earth, was not in a more purely suspended state than a lover of nature feels himself, who at this time of year happens to be at a "watering-place" (like Brighton, for instance), which is neither town nor country. If he is an idle man, with no fixed plans or pursuits, he is completely at fault. He came here, perhaps, thinking it, from its amphibious character, an appropriate spot to pass that intermediate period between winter and spring, which belongs to neither. But, being in love with Spring, and having a standing appointment to meet and hail her every year in her own domain the moment she has fairly set her foot on this part of our world,-if she chances, as she has this year, to have delayed her coming, and also neglected to announce her approach by the usual signals, he is very likely to miss her smiles altogether: for, being more contemplative than active (as all lovers, whether of Nature or any of her works, are), and consequently somewhat "infirm of purpose" when his purposes are to end in action, he has a good chance of waiting for her coming till she is gone:-for Spring, like "time and tide," will "wait for no man." In the first place, he is out of the way of any of those little indications which he meets with in a great city, like London, to tell him that it is time to be on the wing to keep his assignation;-such as the caged sky-lark's first carol; the pretty cry of "Come buy my primroses!" and the sight of the youths and maidens with branches of willow-bloom in their hands, that he meets on the Bridges in the afternoon of Palm Sunday. He is equally out of the reach of those official heralds of her approach that the Spring sends before her; such as the swelling of the buds, the light flush of new green that overspreads the meadows, and the sudden birth of those scentless flowers that burst into life and reach maturity almost at the same moment, and will not wait for the sun-such as the snowdrop, too meek to bear its bright gaze; and the crocus, too bold to need it.. Indeed all these, and more, he may meet with even in London-in the squares and window-sills. But in a place like this of which I am speaking, he is cut off from all these indications, the artificial as well as the real; and has nothing to depend on but the almanack and the thermometer. And that these latter are by no means to be implicitly trusted, is sufficiently proved by the fact that it is to-day May-day, and the sun is shining with the heat of midsummer, and yet Jack-inthe-green (who has just quitted my window) is decked out in artificial flowers, and I have just been walking two miles in search of a green tree, and cannot find one.

But it is not in the Spring alone that these "out-of-town" places are to be shunned as anomalies both in Nature and in Art. Taking Brighton as the most striking example of what is here meant, I must maintain that they are hateful at all times; except, perhaps, at that particular period I have named above, when the year is in its caterpillar state, intermediate between the chrysalis winter, and the butterfly spring and summer.

And they are hateful on many other accounts besides those immediately connected with the beauties of external nature. They are neither one thing nor another-" neither flesh nor fish;" and accord

ingly you "don't know where to have them." And they communicate the same uncertain kind of feeling to a sojourner in them. They present nothing tangible, nothing distinct, nothing consistent. They are made up of negatives. They have none of either the virtues or the faults of a great metropolis; and still less any of those of a little country village. They have nothing characteristic; they are of "no mark or likelihood;" and you can give no account of them that is not contradictory of itself. When you return from one of them, the first acquaintance you meet asks if you have been "out of town?" and you answer "Yes," and the next you meet inquires if you've been "in the country?" and you say "No:" and you speak neither truth nor falsehood in either case: for nothing belonging to them partakes of the qualities of either the one or the other. The houses are no more like London houses than they are like country houses; the streets are half one and half the other, yet unlike either the flagpaved footpath of the one, and the dusty roadway of the other; the shops have none of the homely, modest, no-pretension look of country shops, and none of the richness and splendour of London ones; the houses of entertainment, on the other hand, are all pretension and no performance the inn, the tavern, the family-hotel, the coffee-house, and the lodging-house, all in one, without any of the peculiar accommodations and advantages of either. And above all, the people you meet are still more unlike either Londoners or country-folks; or rather they are made up of the bad parts of both; they have the dull, dogged look and awkward manner of country people, without their appearance of health and simplicity, and the anxious and care-worn cast of the Londoners without their shrewdness and self-possession.

In London, even in Spring and Summer, if you are compelled to remain there, you know the worst, and you make up your mind to it. London makes no pretensions to be what it is not, and therefore you are not disappointed. It professes to be the antithesis of the country, and it is so; which is bad enough, to be sure: but a scoundrel, though he is by all means to be feared and avoided if possible, is not to be despised unless he is at the same time a hypocrite. And indeed it may be questioned whether it is not worth while to be robbed by a highwayman, for once in a way, if he do but perform his métier in a handsome manner, and do not take too much from one,-if it be but to learn how the thing is done, and how we shall behave under the circumstances: and moreover, it may teach one to avoid such encounters in future. But to be spunged upon by "a petty larceny rascal," who obtains your goods under false pretences, can be turned to no benefit whatever. London is the grand emporium of all that is bad, mixed with much good that can be got nowhere else; and you must be content to take it as you find it. But these paltry imitations of the petty evils and follies of London, without any of its grandeur or goodness, and without any thing else that can make up for the want of them, ought to be put down by act of parliament.

But I am writing myself out of temper; which should not be, unless I would write my readers into the same situation. The truth is, I have been waiting here, in one of these nondescript places, week after week, watching and sighing for the Spring, as no school-boy ever sighed for the Christmas holidays; and here is May-day come, and Spring not