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treasure, I see typified Sebastian, Trinculo, and their worthy companion Caliban :

Trinculo, the king and all our company being drowned, we will inherit here.'

Monster, I will kill this man; his daughter and I will be king and queen, (save our graces!) and Trinculo and thyself shall be viceroys.'

I do not mean to hold up the incidents and characters in the narrative and in the play as parallel, or as being strikingly similar: neither would I insinuate that the narrative suggested the

play; I would only suppose that Shakspeare, being occupied about that time on the drama of the Tempest, the main story of which, I believe, is of Italian origin, had many of the fanciful ideas of it suggested to his mind by the shipwreck of Sir George Somers on the still vext Bermoothes, and by the popular superstitions connected with these islands, and suddenly put in circulation by that event.

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Tue intimate connexion between poetry and music is scarcely appreciated by the multitude. The capabilities of an instrument are not limited to uttering harmonious sounds : in the hands of a skilful artist, it may be made to express ideas. Perhaps no better illustration of this position can be found, than the words which the celebrated pianist, Listz, has composed on the simple Spanish air, “Yo que soy Contrabandista.' It is indeed a complete poem. After a spirited and comprehensive introduction, says MADAME Dudevant, the national air, expressed at first in all its original simplicity, passes, by a succession of intonations admirably adapted to each other, from infantile grace to warlike rudeness; from rural melancholy, to gloomy rage; from heart-rending grief, to poetic phrenzy; suddenly, amid all this feverish agitation, a sublime prayer, wonderfully embodied in most scientific modulations, raises you to another sphere; yet even in this ethereal atmosphere, the distant sounds of earth, songs, wailings, menaces, cries of distress and triumph, still pursue you. Awakened from an ecstacy of contemplation, you descend again to the festival and the combat; you are again summoned thence; the mysterious and all-powerful voice calls you once more to the mountain, where your soul is refreshed by the dew of holy tears; and yet again the mountain vanishes, and the torches of the banquet eclipse the stars of heaven. A thousand voices of joy, of triumph, and of anger, then take up the theme, and a thundering chorus terminates this mighty poem, this magnificent creation of genius, which subjects a whole life, an entire world of thoughts and feelings, to the magic touch of the thrilling keys.

On the sensations inspired by this wonderful performance, Madame Dudevant, better known by the nom-de-guerre of George Sand, has founded the following dramatic sketch, which I have endeavored to render into English. The prose-poetry of the original, so conformable

to the genius of the French tongue, scarcely admits of imitation in our own. I have therefore translated the piece into verse, with the exception of such parts, (marked in the original recitatif,') as were evidently introduced merely to give it connection.

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Rejoice! Rejoice!
Let us strike the full goblets again and again,
Till their roseate lips shall be shattered in twain ;
Come, wind of the evening, from balm-breathing bowers,
And strew on our foreheads the sweet orange flowers;
Let us drink to the day that unites us once more,
At the time-honored home of our sires of yore!

Brothers and friends, rejoice!


Come, friend of my childhood, come servitor mine,
And fill me a goblet of generous wine !
Those hands that have guided my steps when a child,

Must support me again, ere this night shall be o'er ;
And when I am stammering, wine-overcome,

I then thy master shall seem no more;
And to me thou wilt say, as thou often hast said,
‘My child, it is time to retire to thy bed.'


Fill up, fill up the merry wassail cup!

Free, free be the red wine poured!
For the servant good who so long hath stood

By the side of his noble lord!
Let his wrinkled brow grow joyous now!

Let him yield his spirit up
To the power divine of the god of wine,

Who smiles in the mantling cup!
'Tis Bacchus fair that lurketh there,

The fairest of gods is he:
Yes, even Cupid is a sluggard stupid,

Compared with the wine.god free.
Drink, drink old man, till thy gray-haired age

Hath vanished and fled away,
And thou art as young as the youngest page,

Who now doth thy word obey.
That thy lord may be, when deprived of thee,

Unable his couch to find,
And with us may stay, till the dawn of day,

Like a generous host, and kind.


And why dost thou, my charming fair,
Refuse our revelry to share ?
Why dost thou take such scanty sips
As hard wet thy rosy lips ?
Come, fill thy goblet brimming high!
For if thou dost not drink as 1,
In truth I shall begin to fear
I am to thee no longer dear;
And that thou shun'st the red wine's flow,
Lest it should make thee tell me so!


Drink, wives and sisters, drink with us,

And join us in our lay,
For Bacchus only those betrays,

Who would all else betray.
'Tis he unveils the hearts of men,

Like the trump of the judgment day:
The liar's words he falsifies,

And the truth of the true makes clear;
So ye who have no wicked thoughts,

Unmeet for friends to hear,
Let fall your words confidingly,

Without a shade of fear;
As the crystal drops in early spring,

At Sol's all-powerful will,
Start forth adown the ice-bound cliffs,

In many a limpid rill.


Yes, we will drink and sing with you,

Nor shun the red wine flowing;
For we have nothing in our hearts,

That we should fear your knowing ;
And if we say too much to-night,

'T will be no cause of sorrow;
For well we know that none of you

Will think of it to-morrow!


Rejoice! Rejoice!
Let us strike the full goblet again and again,
Till their roseate lips shall be shattered in twain :
Come, wind of the evening, from balm-breathing bowers,
And strew on our foreheads the sweet orange flowers !
This, this is the day that unites us once more,
At the time-honored home of our sires of yore :

Let one and all rejoice!

A GUEST. I fear that the uproar of all our voices together, may intoxicate us sooner than the wine. Let us suffer the jolly god to take possession of us slowly, and gradually to infuse into our veins his genial influence. Let the youngest of us sing some popular air, and we will repeat the chorus only.


Here is a lay of the mountains, which you must all remember. It often draws tears from the eyes of those who hear it in foreign lands.


Ay, sing, my boy, sing, make no delay!
And let each, as the chorus he swells io-day,
Bless his good angel that now, once more,
He sees the home of his sires of yore:

Let one and all rejoice!


'I who a contrabandist am,

A noble life I lead;
I scour the mountains night and day,

Or down to the hamlet speed,
To sport with the lovely maidens there;

And when the guard comes by,

I clap the spur to my good black steed,

And back to the mountains fly!
Huzza ! huzza! my good black steed,

The guard is just in view;
Huzza! huzza! my good black steed!

Ye maidens fair, adieu!

'Huzza! huzza! my good black steed!

The guard is just in view;
Huzza! huzza ! my good black steed!
Ye maidens fair, adieu !

Rejoice! Rejoice!
Let us strike the full goblets again and again,
Till their roseate lips


Ha! who is this pilgrim that issues from the forest, followed by a famished dog, black as night? He approaches us with an uncertain step. He seems worn out with fatigue. Fill him a generous cup. Let him drink to his far-off home and absent friends.


Tired wanderer, the cup of joy come fill with us, and drain
To the far-off home and absent friends thou ne'er may'st see again.


Ungrateful country, friends untrue,
I never more will drink to you!
Accursed for ever may ye live,
Who a brother thus like a beggar receive!
For ever may ye be forgot,
Who a former friend remember not!
The worthless cup ye bid me take,
(A vulgar alms,) I fain would break,
And in that wine would bathe my feet,
That yields my heart no genial heat.
False is your friendship, bad your wine,.
And your welcome cold as this lot of mine!


Who art thou, who alone darest to beard us all in the home of our sires ? — who boastest that thou art one of us ? — who pourest out in the dust the cup of joy and hospitality?


Who am I? I will tell you. I am an unfortunate man, and therefore none of you remember me. Had I come among you in my former splendor, you would all have run to meet me, and the fairest of your dames would have poured for me the stirrup-cup in a golden goblet. But I come alone, with no pomp of equipage - no servants, horses, nor dogs : the gold of my habit is tarnished

by sun and rain ; my cheeks are hollowed, and my forehead sinks under the weight of my lasting cares, like that of Atlas beneath the burthen of the world. Why do you gaze at me so stupidly? Are you not ashamed to be surprised in these bacchanalian orgies, by him who fondly thought that you were even now lamenting his absence ? Come, rise! Let the proudest among you yield me his seat by the side of your

fairest dame.

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