ILLUMINATED, OR VELLUM-PAINTING.

ARTIFICIAL PEARLS IN THE MUSSEL (MYA MARGARITIFERA).

In a recent number of the "Journal of the Society of Arts," it was stated that an "oyster, or rather a mussel, of the species known to naturalists as themya margaritifera, in which the artificial pearls are formed by the Chinese, had recently been sent to England. These pearls are only obtained near Ning-po, and until lately very little was known of the manner in which they were formed; and the account first published by Sir Joseph Banks was generally questioned. TheHermessteamer, however, on a late visit to that place, was able to obtain several live ones, in which, on being opened, several pearls, as many as eighteen or twenty, were found in the course of formation. The one sent only contains simple pearls adhering to the shell. It appears they are formed by introducing some pieces of wood or baked earth into the animal while alive, which, irritating it, causes it to cover the extraneous substance with a pearly deposit. Little figures made of metal are frequently introduced, and, when covered with the deposit, are valued by the Chinese as charms. These figures generally represent Buddha in the sitting position, in which that image is most frequently portrayed. Several specimens have, it is said, been preserved alive in spirits, and others slightly opened, so as to show the pearls."

ASit is the duty of a faithful journalist not only to "hit the follies of the day," but to study the tastes of the times, we have now ventured to make a few remarks on an art which has of late been revived, and which is now not only much practised as an accomplishment, but widely diffused as a means of general ornamentation. A slight sketch of its history will perhaps form a not unacceptable introduction to our subject.

It would appear that the metallic portions, and the general idea of illuminated painting, have been familiar to Oriental nations for ages; numberless traces of it, as applied to decorative purposes, having been discovered among those memorials now existing of the early Persian, Arabian, and Moorish races. The Egyptians, too, appear to have possessed the art of adding burnished gold or silver to their paintings; but whether they ever thus ornamented manuscripts is not known to us—in all probability they did not. Neither do the more ancient inhabitants of Italy appear to have applied it to manuscripts, for none of those discovered amid the ruins of the buried cities of Herculaneum and Pompeii are illuminated.

Many writers have surmised that manuscripts were not thus decorated until they began to assume something of the folio form; certainly, we are not aware of any traces of illuminating having been found in those rolled manuscripts which have descended to us. "The Dioscorides" in the Library of Vienna, and the celebrated copy of "Virgil" in the Vatican at Rome—both of which are supposed to date back so far as the fourth century—are believed to be the oldest examples of illuminated MSS. extant; and these can scarcely claim to be termed illuminated, for they only differ from ordinary manuscripts in having colored capitals. It is not until the seventh century that we find this art practised in any part of Great Britain; and then, in its earliest form, it simply consisted in staining the vellum purple or rose color, or inscribing the characters in gold. In the British Museum is a splendid MS., termed the "Golden Gospels," supposed to date from about the eighth century; its text is entirely of gold. There are some beautiful decorations in this valuable and curious relic of the patience, industry, and artistic powers of our Anglo-Saxon ancestors. There is another illuminated manuscript copy of the Gospels in the Archiepiscopal Library at Lambeth Palace, supposed to be nine hundred years old, and to have been painted by Moelbrigid Mac Durnan, Abbot of Derry, for Athelstan, who presented it to the city of Canterbury.

In those early ages, illuminating was applied only to religious and devotional MSS.; and it was chiefly done by members of the religious orders, for a very good reason—that they appear to have been almost the sole depositories of what learning and fine arts then existed. The celebrated St. Dunstan is said to have been a skilful illuminator, and is represented, in one of the pictures of an old manuscript, as busily at work decorating a missal.

The earlier specimens of illuminating which have descended to us are mostly crude and simple, consisting chiefly of colored capitals, stained ground, and metallic letters. For several ages the art does not appear to have made much progress, except that the capital letters increase in size, in ornament and beauty; and about the twelfth century we find them assuming a gigantic height, abounding in florid development, gorgeous in hues, and often exquisite in execution. In the early part of the fourteenth century an alteration is perceptible—the MS. pages assume an illuminated border, which at first only passes down one side, but gradually extends along the top and the bottom of the page; and, after a lapse of years, constitutes a complete frame to the text.

These borders at first consist simply of foliage or scrolls; but, as the art improves, and doubtless is more fostered and patronized, arabesques are introduced, in which forms of marvellous grace and beauty, linked in inextricable twinings, shine forth in all the gorgeous hues of a brilliant sunset; and these are, at a later period, gemmed with medallions or miniature paintings, illustrative of portfolios of the text. Indeed, several of the most celebrated painters of those days did not disdain to enrich MSS. for some high personage with specimens of their artistic skill. This continued until the middle of the sixteenth century.

Subsequently, a progressive decline in the excellence and artistic beauty of illuminatedpainting becomes very evident. It is true that, in the middle of the seventeenth century, it was florid, gorgeous, and, to a certain degree, admirable, but it was not the beauty of art; the rococo taste was beginning to dawn—that strange exuberance of fancy which heaped in one mass the most incongruous details, and was often more cumbrous and grotesque than graceful and harmonious. Nor was it probably only to this cause that the decline in the art may be attributed—the introduction of printing, and its gradual diffusion, had made manuscripts less valuable. The Reformation also, doubtless, had its share in depreciating illuminated painting, which soon ceased to be practised to any extent—excepting in Catholic countries—for the decoration of missals.

Then comes a period of some hundred or hundred and fifty years, during which the art may almost be said to be extinct; nor is it until within the last ten or twenty years that it has received much attention. Then, when lithographic printing, and various similar improvements, facilitated the reproduction of an indefinite number of copies of any given subject, and the still further invention of color-printing and chromo-lithography came into exercise, the value of a study of illuminated painting was perceived, and its applicability to all purposes of literary ornamentation developed. The title-pages of albums, of music, and of annuals; the covers of magazines and books; the initial letters of articles in periodicals; the decorations on circulars, cards, labels, and numberless other similar productions, whether printed, colored, gilded, or stamped—all will be found more or less derivable from the old style of illuminated manuscripts; indeed, a person who has not studied it can form little idea how largely its principles enter into all this kind of decorations.

It has been said that this branch of the art of painting is so mechanical as to be easily taught in a few lessons to those who have no previous knowledge of drawing. This we cannot fully admit. It is true such persons may acquire a smattering of the art—a crude, inartistic style of working it; but, unless they have a correct eye, good taste, and some judgment, they cannot achieve anything that will not betray the amateur.

It is by no means an easy matter to give practical written instructions for illuminated painting on vellum; for it is not merely directions as to what materials shall be used, and the mode of employing them, that are required, but principles for general guidance which have to be inculcated. The desired effects cannot be produced by a heterogeneous assemblage of forms and colors, but only by careful and artistic combinations of the appropriate and the harmonious.

In the matter of letters, allegorical letters, suitable to the subject they are to commence, may be obtained by arranging animals, fishes, reptiles, &c. &c., into the requisite forms.

Fig. 1.

Fig. 1 represents an L adapted for a paper on botany.

For those who may wish to paint from these cuts, we state that the leaves are of sap-green, shaded with Prussian green, and just touched at the tips with gold; the small ones are more delicately tinted than the others.

Fig. 2.

Fig. 2 is a T adapted for a paper on woods or forest trees. It is painted in Vandyke brown, and shaded with black, and the leaves and ground are green.

In an old MS. at the British Museum, the human form is most oddly contorted into grotesque semblances of capital letters. An initial for a paper on war may be composed of armor, weapons, &c.

Fig. 3, an S, is suitable for a heroic poem, or romantic tale of chivalry. For agriculture, we form our initial of corn, or the implements of husbandry, and such like; for music, of musical instruments and characteristic ornaments.

The S in the annexed cut is of silver, burnished and wrought (terms which we shall presently explain); the flag is painted in ultramarine, and striped and bordered with silverthe spear-headed staff is shaded with Vandyke brown, and its decorations put in with silver.

Fig. 3.

Fig. 4.

Fig. 4 is not an allegorical letter, but simply decorative, and adapted for a title-page, rather than an initial. The darker and central parts of the letter are of vermilion, shaded with carmine; and the ornamentation of gold burnished and wrought. The letter in Fig. 5 belongs to the same class, and is only a modification of style; the white ground is merely shaded up with soft touches of carmine. The varieties of letters which can be formed are endless, and may be as quaint and as ideal as fancy can devise, provided they are also appropriate, and do not depart from the gracefully-curved line of beauty.

Fig. 5.

For illuminated painting we use water-colors; ultramarine, carmine, burnt carmine, burnt sienna, gamboge, deep chrome, vermilion, red-lead, emerald-green, sap-green, Vandyke-brown, lamp-black, and Chinese-white, are those most necessary. Persons who are not already provided with colors will do well to purchase those which are prepared expressly for illuminating, as they are more brilliant. Pure gold, green gold, and silver shells; fine sable hair-pencils, some gum-water, a lead-pencil, H. H. H; some tracing and some transferring paper; and an agate burnisher, which consists of a piece of polished agate, in the shape of a cut pencil, set in a handle; a flat ruler and a tracing pen, are the materials requisite; all of which should be obtained at one of the first-rate artists' color repositories.

Illuminated paintings may be made either on vellum or fine Bristol-board; the vellum is prepared expressly for the purpose, and not that commonly sold; it must be mounted on, or affixed to, a drawing-board (which has previously been covered with cartridge-paper) with artists' glue, before it can be painted on. Great care is requisite in sketching or transferring the outlines to its surface, for it is by no means easy to efface any marks once made; bread is usually more efficacious for this purpose than India-rubber; but, as it must be stale, it can only be used with caution, being likely to scratch or roughen the surface.

Fig. 6.

In all illuminated drawings the background is more or less ornamented; and this may be done according to the fancy of the artist himself; the leading characteristics of these fundamental ornamentations are delicacy, simplicity, and grace. In the different compartments of Fig. 6, four of the most common patterns are given. They are either put in with a darker shade ofthe grounding tint, or wrought in gold or silver, or painted in white or black. The straight lines must be firm and even, and equidistant; the curved lines flowing and graceful; the dots or spots all equal in size, and at even distances from the lines and from each other. The upper and lower compartments of this cut are pure gold and green gold, on a black and an ultramarine ground; the right-hand side is grounded with a light tint of emerald-green, and worked over with ornamentation in sap-green; the left-hand compartment is silver, on a delicate blue ground.

Fig. 7.

This damask pattern (see Fig. 7), which may be enlarged or diminished, is worked in carmine, on a ground of red-lead, or a light tint of vermilion. It is as well to observe that these groundwork patterns are almost always very minute and delicate; and, therefore, should never be traced with a pencil, or the line will show; but must be worked in with a fine sable-hair brush, and the requisite tint, or with a very fine pen, charged with diluted color; but the brush is preferable.

Fig. 8.Fig. 9.

Such ornamentations as those in Figs. 8 and 9 may be worked in on the outer or metallic borders, which frequently surround the chief border. Our readers must not suppose that we profess to give all, or half the forms of decoration used for groundwork in illuminated drawings. We only attempt to sketch those most frequently met with, and which may serve as models of style. Various threefold ornaments—originating, doubtless, in the spirit of that class of men who at first chiefly used this decoration for MSS., and symbolical of the triune nature of the Deity—are frequently observed. In Fig. 10 are two of the most common specimens; the third is a spider-like ornament, also often introduced. Fig. 11 is another simple and common decoration.

Fig. 10.Fig. 11.

BY JENNY A. M'EWAN.

THElast, the last! it lingers still,Though weary days have fled,Though summer's bloomIs in the tomb,And autumn's glory dead.The last, the last! upon my browThy seal of truth is pressed,And in my heartLove's echoes start;Their music ne'er can rest.The bright, blue heaven is clouded now,And moans the wintry blast;Fond memory sighs,But hope replies,"That kiss was not the last."'Tis when I yield my wearied frameTo slumber's magic powers,By thy dear side,Thine own loved bride,I rove through Dreamland's bowers.Oh, dim are all my earthly joysTo those that greet me there,And in my dreamIt ne'er doth seemThat Heaven can be more fair.Gray morning breaks o'er yonder hill;My visions bright are past,Yet ere they fly,The spirits sigh,"Thy dream-kiss was the last!"When twilight's magic hour draws nigh,And Thought is roaming free,When evening's breezeSighs through the trees,Thy spirit comes to me.Oh, 'tis a holy presence thenThat's stealing o'er my breast;The magic powerOf that sweet hourLulls my sad heart to rest.And on my brow I feel a touch,A breathing touch of bliss;The spirit-sighIs hovering nigh,That touch, the spirit-kiss.'Tis here, 'tis here! I feel it now—Yes, o'er my heart 'tis cast,And voices sweetOnce more repeat"The spirit-kiss is last."

THElast, the last! it lingers still,Though weary days have fled,Though summer's bloomIs in the tomb,And autumn's glory dead.

THElast, the last! it lingers still,

Though weary days have fled,

Though summer's bloom

Is in the tomb,

And autumn's glory dead.

The last, the last! upon my browThy seal of truth is pressed,And in my heartLove's echoes start;Their music ne'er can rest.

The last, the last! upon my brow

Thy seal of truth is pressed,

And in my heart

Love's echoes start;

Their music ne'er can rest.

The bright, blue heaven is clouded now,And moans the wintry blast;Fond memory sighs,But hope replies,"That kiss was not the last."

The bright, blue heaven is clouded now,

And moans the wintry blast;

Fond memory sighs,

But hope replies,

"That kiss was not the last."

'Tis when I yield my wearied frameTo slumber's magic powers,By thy dear side,Thine own loved bride,I rove through Dreamland's bowers.

'Tis when I yield my wearied frame

To slumber's magic powers,

By thy dear side,

Thine own loved bride,

I rove through Dreamland's bowers.

Oh, dim are all my earthly joysTo those that greet me there,And in my dreamIt ne'er doth seemThat Heaven can be more fair.

Oh, dim are all my earthly joys

To those that greet me there,

And in my dream

It ne'er doth seem

That Heaven can be more fair.

Gray morning breaks o'er yonder hill;My visions bright are past,Yet ere they fly,The spirits sigh,"Thy dream-kiss was the last!"

Gray morning breaks o'er yonder hill;

My visions bright are past,

Yet ere they fly,

The spirits sigh,

"Thy dream-kiss was the last!"

When twilight's magic hour draws nigh,And Thought is roaming free,When evening's breezeSighs through the trees,Thy spirit comes to me.

When twilight's magic hour draws nigh,

And Thought is roaming free,

When evening's breeze

Sighs through the trees,

Thy spirit comes to me.

Oh, 'tis a holy presence thenThat's stealing o'er my breast;The magic powerOf that sweet hourLulls my sad heart to rest.

Oh, 'tis a holy presence then

That's stealing o'er my breast;

The magic power

Of that sweet hour

Lulls my sad heart to rest.

And on my brow I feel a touch,A breathing touch of bliss;The spirit-sighIs hovering nigh,That touch, the spirit-kiss.

And on my brow I feel a touch,

A breathing touch of bliss;

The spirit-sigh

Is hovering nigh,

That touch, the spirit-kiss.

'Tis here, 'tis here! I feel it now—Yes, o'er my heart 'tis cast,And voices sweetOnce more repeat"The spirit-kiss is last."

'Tis here, 'tis here! I feel it now—

Yes, o'er my heart 'tis cast,

And voices sweet

Once more repeat

"The spirit-kiss is last."

BY KATE HARRINGTON.

RAISEme gently—gently, sister, that my brow may catch the breezeSoftly gliding through the casement from yon grove of orange-trees;That mine ear may drink the music gushing forth in mellow lays,Made by song-birds sweetly warbling their evening hymns of praise;That mine eye again may wander to the bosom of yon stream,Where the ripples dance as lightly as young fairies in a dream.Now bend your ear, my sister, for my life is ebbing fast,And my heart must tell its secret before the dream is past;It is all the grief I've cherished that thou hast never known,For, save this, my thoughts have ever found an echo in thine own.It were better not to tell thee, but my spirit spurns control,And the words I would not utter seem escaping from my soul.Dost thou remember, sister, how in sunny youth we playedOn the margin of yon streamlet in the orange branches' shade?Or, when the evening twilight threw its veil o'er stream and wood,And we saw the stars grow dizzy and tremble where they stood,How we twined the pure white blossoms in the ringlets of our hair,And wondered if the dew-drops would come to nestlethere?Hast thou forgotten, sister, life's bright, unclouded spring,When thy thoughts were just as joyous as wild birds on the wing,When young Clarence stood beside thee, and the words he dared to speakMade thy spirit leap for gladness and sent blushes to thy cheek?I had worshipped him in secret; he knew not my distress,And in secret I resigned him, but loved thee none the less.In vain I tried to banish from my crushed and bleeding heartThe image it had cherished long as of itself a part;My will was weak, for when I came to breathe a sad good-by,I could not, could not smother on my lips the bursting sigh.None knew the wild, deep anguish, the torturing pangs of grief,That closed the fount of feeling and refused a tear's relief.Thou hast often wondered, sister, why mine eye has lost its light,Why I've spoken of existence as a gloomy, starless night;Thou hast sat for days together, and, in accents low, hast toldHow thy Clarence soon will hasten from the distant land of gold.Whene'er his name was mentioned, I have felt a strange, wild thrill;But I've learned long since, my sister, to suffer and be still.Nay, weep not; for, believe me, ere awakes yon setting sunEarth's struggles will be over, and life's conflicts will be done;My disembodied spirit upon wings of love will riseTo roam with shining seraphs through the realms of Paradise.My soul is only waiting till the silken cord is riven,To burst its earthly fetters and soar away to Heaven.Draw nearer to me, sister, on my bosom bow thy head,And take my fervent blessing ere I'm numbered with the dead;And Clarence, he must never know the words I've breathed to thee,As a loving sister only let him learn to think of me.Tell him I longed to see him, but could not wait his time,For the angels came to waft me to a never-changing clime.Thou wilt not forget me, sister, though long the parting seems,Yet, oh, believe me, often will I come to thee in dreams;And, if I gain permission of the true, unchanging Friend,I will be thy guardian angel till He calls thee to ascend.Then, as here on earth we've wandered, through fields of light we'll rove,With our spirits joined together by the silken cord of love.

RAISEme gently—gently, sister, that my brow may catch the breeze

Softly gliding through the casement from yon grove of orange-trees;

That mine ear may drink the music gushing forth in mellow lays,

Made by song-birds sweetly warbling their evening hymns of praise;

That mine eye again may wander to the bosom of yon stream,

Where the ripples dance as lightly as young fairies in a dream.

Now bend your ear, my sister, for my life is ebbing fast,And my heart must tell its secret before the dream is past;It is all the grief I've cherished that thou hast never known,For, save this, my thoughts have ever found an echo in thine own.It were better not to tell thee, but my spirit spurns control,And the words I would not utter seem escaping from my soul.

Now bend your ear, my sister, for my life is ebbing fast,

And my heart must tell its secret before the dream is past;

It is all the grief I've cherished that thou hast never known,

For, save this, my thoughts have ever found an echo in thine own.

It were better not to tell thee, but my spirit spurns control,

And the words I would not utter seem escaping from my soul.

Dost thou remember, sister, how in sunny youth we playedOn the margin of yon streamlet in the orange branches' shade?Or, when the evening twilight threw its veil o'er stream and wood,And we saw the stars grow dizzy and tremble where they stood,How we twined the pure white blossoms in the ringlets of our hair,And wondered if the dew-drops would come to nestlethere?

Dost thou remember, sister, how in sunny youth we played

On the margin of yon streamlet in the orange branches' shade?

Or, when the evening twilight threw its veil o'er stream and wood,

And we saw the stars grow dizzy and tremble where they stood,

How we twined the pure white blossoms in the ringlets of our hair,

And wondered if the dew-drops would come to nestlethere?

Hast thou forgotten, sister, life's bright, unclouded spring,When thy thoughts were just as joyous as wild birds on the wing,When young Clarence stood beside thee, and the words he dared to speakMade thy spirit leap for gladness and sent blushes to thy cheek?I had worshipped him in secret; he knew not my distress,And in secret I resigned him, but loved thee none the less.

Hast thou forgotten, sister, life's bright, unclouded spring,

When thy thoughts were just as joyous as wild birds on the wing,

When young Clarence stood beside thee, and the words he dared to speak

Made thy spirit leap for gladness and sent blushes to thy cheek?

I had worshipped him in secret; he knew not my distress,

And in secret I resigned him, but loved thee none the less.

In vain I tried to banish from my crushed and bleeding heartThe image it had cherished long as of itself a part;My will was weak, for when I came to breathe a sad good-by,I could not, could not smother on my lips the bursting sigh.None knew the wild, deep anguish, the torturing pangs of grief,That closed the fount of feeling and refused a tear's relief.

In vain I tried to banish from my crushed and bleeding heart

The image it had cherished long as of itself a part;

My will was weak, for when I came to breathe a sad good-by,

I could not, could not smother on my lips the bursting sigh.

None knew the wild, deep anguish, the torturing pangs of grief,

That closed the fount of feeling and refused a tear's relief.

Thou hast often wondered, sister, why mine eye has lost its light,Why I've spoken of existence as a gloomy, starless night;Thou hast sat for days together, and, in accents low, hast toldHow thy Clarence soon will hasten from the distant land of gold.Whene'er his name was mentioned, I have felt a strange, wild thrill;But I've learned long since, my sister, to suffer and be still.

Thou hast often wondered, sister, why mine eye has lost its light,

Why I've spoken of existence as a gloomy, starless night;

Thou hast sat for days together, and, in accents low, hast told

How thy Clarence soon will hasten from the distant land of gold.

Whene'er his name was mentioned, I have felt a strange, wild thrill;

But I've learned long since, my sister, to suffer and be still.

Nay, weep not; for, believe me, ere awakes yon setting sunEarth's struggles will be over, and life's conflicts will be done;My disembodied spirit upon wings of love will riseTo roam with shining seraphs through the realms of Paradise.My soul is only waiting till the silken cord is riven,To burst its earthly fetters and soar away to Heaven.

Nay, weep not; for, believe me, ere awakes yon setting sun

Earth's struggles will be over, and life's conflicts will be done;

My disembodied spirit upon wings of love will rise

To roam with shining seraphs through the realms of Paradise.

My soul is only waiting till the silken cord is riven,

To burst its earthly fetters and soar away to Heaven.

Draw nearer to me, sister, on my bosom bow thy head,And take my fervent blessing ere I'm numbered with the dead;And Clarence, he must never know the words I've breathed to thee,As a loving sister only let him learn to think of me.Tell him I longed to see him, but could not wait his time,For the angels came to waft me to a never-changing clime.

Draw nearer to me, sister, on my bosom bow thy head,

And take my fervent blessing ere I'm numbered with the dead;

And Clarence, he must never know the words I've breathed to thee,

As a loving sister only let him learn to think of me.

Tell him I longed to see him, but could not wait his time,

For the angels came to waft me to a never-changing clime.

Thou wilt not forget me, sister, though long the parting seems,Yet, oh, believe me, often will I come to thee in dreams;And, if I gain permission of the true, unchanging Friend,I will be thy guardian angel till He calls thee to ascend.Then, as here on earth we've wandered, through fields of light we'll rove,With our spirits joined together by the silken cord of love.

Thou wilt not forget me, sister, though long the parting seems,

Yet, oh, believe me, often will I come to thee in dreams;

And, if I gain permission of the true, unchanging Friend,

I will be thy guardian angel till He calls thee to ascend.

Then, as here on earth we've wandered, through fields of light we'll rove,

With our spirits joined together by the silken cord of love.

BY MOTTE HALL.

OH, I danced with him the schottisch!'Twas the first time that we met;He was such a dashing creature,With orbs as black as jet.And he wore a lovely diamond;How it flashed into my eyes!As he drew me closely to himI saw its wondrous size.Oh, at ball, and rout, and party,I was his schottisch belle;He said I danced so charmingly,And knew the step so well.And we grew so very loving,As we stood upon the floor,That people said the schottisch stepWould lead to Hymen's door.But, though I schottisched every night,I reached not Hymen's dwelling;The god must live a long way off,But where, there is no telling.And, only think, one festal night,The ungrateful, wicked Harry!I heard my schottisch partner say—"She'll do—but not to marry."She'll do to twirl in mazy dance,She'll do for giddy pleasure;She'll do to meet out Folly's gaudsWith Fashion's line and measure;"But she'llnotdo for sacred home,A meek and gentle woman,An angel in her purity,But in her love a human."

OH, I danced with him the schottisch!'Twas the first time that we met;He was such a dashing creature,With orbs as black as jet.

OH, I danced with him the schottisch!

'Twas the first time that we met;

He was such a dashing creature,

With orbs as black as jet.

And he wore a lovely diamond;How it flashed into my eyes!As he drew me closely to himI saw its wondrous size.

And he wore a lovely diamond;

How it flashed into my eyes!

As he drew me closely to him

I saw its wondrous size.

Oh, at ball, and rout, and party,I was his schottisch belle;He said I danced so charmingly,And knew the step so well.

Oh, at ball, and rout, and party,

I was his schottisch belle;

He said I danced so charmingly,

And knew the step so well.

And we grew so very loving,As we stood upon the floor,That people said the schottisch stepWould lead to Hymen's door.

And we grew so very loving,

As we stood upon the floor,

That people said the schottisch step

Would lead to Hymen's door.

But, though I schottisched every night,I reached not Hymen's dwelling;The god must live a long way off,But where, there is no telling.

But, though I schottisched every night,

I reached not Hymen's dwelling;

The god must live a long way off,

But where, there is no telling.

And, only think, one festal night,The ungrateful, wicked Harry!I heard my schottisch partner say—"She'll do—but not to marry.

And, only think, one festal night,

The ungrateful, wicked Harry!

I heard my schottisch partner say—

"She'll do—but not to marry.

"She'll do to twirl in mazy dance,She'll do for giddy pleasure;She'll do to meet out Folly's gaudsWith Fashion's line and measure;

"She'll do to twirl in mazy dance,

She'll do for giddy pleasure;

She'll do to meet out Folly's gauds

With Fashion's line and measure;

"But she'llnotdo for sacred home,A meek and gentle woman,An angel in her purity,But in her love a human."

"But she'llnotdo for sacred home,

A meek and gentle woman,

An angel in her purity,

But in her love a human."

BY MRS. S. F. JENNINGS.

ALITTLEdirty ragged boy, in the streets of New York, selling penny songs, is asked by a gentleman if he has a mother. "Neow don't—where's yourn? Does she know you're out?" he says, with that impudentnonchalancewhich is the more pitiful because so common among that class. But the gentleman buys some of his songs, and that act is the sesame to his heart. Upon a second putting of the question, he is ready, though with the same reckless air, to answer, "No; folks don't have two mothers, do they? and mine's dead's long ago's I can remember."

Two mothers? Never, little one;No merit brings such meed;God gave theeone—if she be goneGod help thee feel thy need!For a dangerous way, stormy and wild,Thou goest, without thy mother, child.The throbbing heart of this mighty town,How beats its pulse for thee?The tide of life swells up and downThe paths of this restless sea.Will they dash thy bark on the surf away,Like a straw or leaf on the ocean spray?Poor boy! for thee how ruthless timeAll tender ties hath riven!Thy father's love—all seared with crime;Thy mother—gone to Heaven.No brother, sister, guards the shrine,When God hath set his seal divine.Thy motherdead? long, long ago?No soft eye beams on thee?No kindly voice says firmly "No,"To bid thy tempter flee?And snares are thick, and pitfalls deep,And the upward way is rough and steep.And thou heedest not, in thy soul's deep night,That God hath so bereft thee;And thou carest not for the trembling lightDim in thy memory left thee.God save thee from the world's sure blight!God save thee from anendlessnight!

Two mothers? Never, little one;No merit brings such meed;God gave theeone—if she be goneGod help thee feel thy need!For a dangerous way, stormy and wild,Thou goest, without thy mother, child.

Two mothers? Never, little one;

No merit brings such meed;

God gave theeone—if she be gone

God help thee feel thy need!

For a dangerous way, stormy and wild,

Thou goest, without thy mother, child.

The throbbing heart of this mighty town,How beats its pulse for thee?The tide of life swells up and downThe paths of this restless sea.Will they dash thy bark on the surf away,Like a straw or leaf on the ocean spray?

The throbbing heart of this mighty town,

How beats its pulse for thee?

The tide of life swells up and down

The paths of this restless sea.

Will they dash thy bark on the surf away,

Like a straw or leaf on the ocean spray?

Poor boy! for thee how ruthless timeAll tender ties hath riven!Thy father's love—all seared with crime;Thy mother—gone to Heaven.No brother, sister, guards the shrine,When God hath set his seal divine.

Poor boy! for thee how ruthless time

All tender ties hath riven!

Thy father's love—all seared with crime;

Thy mother—gone to Heaven.

No brother, sister, guards the shrine,

When God hath set his seal divine.

Thy motherdead? long, long ago?No soft eye beams on thee?No kindly voice says firmly "No,"To bid thy tempter flee?And snares are thick, and pitfalls deep,And the upward way is rough and steep.

Thy motherdead? long, long ago?

No soft eye beams on thee?

No kindly voice says firmly "No,"

To bid thy tempter flee?

And snares are thick, and pitfalls deep,

And the upward way is rough and steep.

And thou heedest not, in thy soul's deep night,That God hath so bereft thee;And thou carest not for the trembling lightDim in thy memory left thee.God save thee from the world's sure blight!God save thee from anendlessnight!

And thou heedest not, in thy soul's deep night,

That God hath so bereft thee;

And thou carest not for the trembling light

Dim in thy memory left thee.

God save thee from the world's sure blight!

God save thee from anendlessnight!

BY W. S. GAFFNEY.

SWEETERthan the sweetest flower,Brighter than the brightest gem,Richer far than Flora's bower,Art or nature's diadem—Fairer, sweeter,Purer, meeter,Is a kind and loving heart!Wealth may prove a toy caressing;Beauty's charms a world of light;But Affection is a blessingFrom a soul serene and bright;Kindest, purest,Best and surest,Is a faithful, loving heart!

SWEETERthan the sweetest flower,Brighter than the brightest gem,Richer far than Flora's bower,Art or nature's diadem—Fairer, sweeter,Purer, meeter,Is a kind and loving heart!

SWEETERthan the sweetest flower,

Brighter than the brightest gem,

Richer far than Flora's bower,

Art or nature's diadem—

Fairer, sweeter,

Purer, meeter,

Is a kind and loving heart!

Wealth may prove a toy caressing;Beauty's charms a world of light;But Affection is a blessingFrom a soul serene and bright;Kindest, purest,Best and surest,Is a faithful, loving heart!

Wealth may prove a toy caressing;

Beauty's charms a world of light;

But Affection is a blessing

From a soul serene and bright;

Kindest, purest,

Best and surest,

Is a faithful, loving heart!

BY H. MERRAN PARKE.

TWILIGHTdeepens upon the lea,And shadows come dancing in play with me;Little brown birds have hurried awayTo their nests in the tree-tops old and gray,While here at my window I lean and gazeEarnestly into the misty haze,Watching the coming of one sweet starWhich thou'rt now seeking from me afar.Absent and dearest, my spirit's lifeDost ever forget, 'mid the din and strife,That one fond heart o'er the line of hillsSighs for thy presence, yet bounds and fillsWith measureless bliss when this sweet hourGathers around with its magic power.Visions of brightness come and goLike the falling and melting of winter snow;But one, a presence like thine remains,And winds my heart in its golden chains.Then, sweet as the music in Assam's bowers,When winds go singing among the flowers,Or like the leaves of the lotus-treeThat touch each other in melody,So sweetly a voice creeps into my soulTo woo my senses from earth's control,And point to a world of rarer joyWhere pleasures are found that never cloy,Where bliss supernal forever reigns,And rapture gushes in seraph strains.Oh, earth is darkly beautiful now,With her garland of flowers upon her brow;And the stars have come with their golden eyesTo light up the portals of Paradise;The visions of sweetness have left my heart,But the voice of music will never depart;And when I look to the shining skies,Where the bright pavilions of glory rise,I'll think of the gardens of matchless flowers,Where angels walk 'mid the wingless hours;And, dearest, I'll think we'll sometimes goThe peace and rapture of heaven to know.But, hark! the sound of ringing bellsComes on the wind, and softly tellsMidnight—and earth doth sweetly rest,With her beautiful children on her breast.

TWILIGHTdeepens upon the lea,

And shadows come dancing in play with me;

Little brown birds have hurried away

To their nests in the tree-tops old and gray,

While here at my window I lean and gaze

Earnestly into the misty haze,

Watching the coming of one sweet star

Which thou'rt now seeking from me afar.

Absent and dearest, my spirit's life

Dost ever forget, 'mid the din and strife,

That one fond heart o'er the line of hills

Sighs for thy presence, yet bounds and fills

With measureless bliss when this sweet hour

Gathers around with its magic power.

Visions of brightness come and goLike the falling and melting of winter snow;But one, a presence like thine remains,And winds my heart in its golden chains.Then, sweet as the music in Assam's bowers,When winds go singing among the flowers,Or like the leaves of the lotus-treeThat touch each other in melody,So sweetly a voice creeps into my soulTo woo my senses from earth's control,And point to a world of rarer joyWhere pleasures are found that never cloy,Where bliss supernal forever reigns,And rapture gushes in seraph strains.

Visions of brightness come and go

Like the falling and melting of winter snow;

But one, a presence like thine remains,

And winds my heart in its golden chains.

Then, sweet as the music in Assam's bowers,

When winds go singing among the flowers,

Or like the leaves of the lotus-tree

That touch each other in melody,

So sweetly a voice creeps into my soul

To woo my senses from earth's control,

And point to a world of rarer joy

Where pleasures are found that never cloy,

Where bliss supernal forever reigns,

And rapture gushes in seraph strains.

Oh, earth is darkly beautiful now,With her garland of flowers upon her brow;And the stars have come with their golden eyesTo light up the portals of Paradise;The visions of sweetness have left my heart,But the voice of music will never depart;And when I look to the shining skies,Where the bright pavilions of glory rise,I'll think of the gardens of matchless flowers,Where angels walk 'mid the wingless hours;And, dearest, I'll think we'll sometimes goThe peace and rapture of heaven to know.But, hark! the sound of ringing bellsComes on the wind, and softly tellsMidnight—and earth doth sweetly rest,With her beautiful children on her breast.

Oh, earth is darkly beautiful now,

With her garland of flowers upon her brow;

And the stars have come with their golden eyes

To light up the portals of Paradise;

The visions of sweetness have left my heart,

But the voice of music will never depart;

And when I look to the shining skies,

Where the bright pavilions of glory rise,

I'll think of the gardens of matchless flowers,

Where angels walk 'mid the wingless hours;

And, dearest, I'll think we'll sometimes go

The peace and rapture of heaven to know.

But, hark! the sound of ringing bells

Comes on the wind, and softly tells

Midnight—and earth doth sweetly rest,

With her beautiful children on her breast.

BY WM. ALEXANDER.

WINTERscarce o'er, as messenger of Spring,Walks forth bright Snowdrop, clad in green and white,Which simple beauties every eye delight,Till Violet scents the gale and Bluebirds sing;Come now the Windflower and the Tulip tall,And Naiad Lily of the lowly vale,The lover's flower, which is true passion pale;Up, next, Narcissus springs, more fair than all,Reflecting in the brook, that purls anigh,Her image, and, like Echo, hastes to die;Then the sweet lady Rose, at Zephyr's call,Like nymph, comes forth to show her glowing breast,While Flora holds her proudest carnival,And yields the palm to her, as queen of all the rest.

WINTERscarce o'er, as messenger of Spring,

Walks forth bright Snowdrop, clad in green and white,

Which simple beauties every eye delight,

Till Violet scents the gale and Bluebirds sing;

Come now the Windflower and the Tulip tall,

And Naiad Lily of the lowly vale,

The lover's flower, which is true passion pale;

Up, next, Narcissus springs, more fair than all,

Reflecting in the brook, that purls anigh,

Her image, and, like Echo, hastes to die;

Then the sweet lady Rose, at Zephyr's call,

Like nymph, comes forth to show her glowing breast,

While Flora holds her proudest carnival,

And yields the palm to her, as queen of all the rest.

BY H. S. D.

STERNold Janus shook his sceptreOver a shivering land,Yet spring, one day, with a warning cameAnd slipped it from his hand.She brought him torrents from the skies,And rivers down the street;Melted his crown about his eyes,And thawed his icy feet.My tulip bulbs in goodly rows,Scenting the loosened springs,Shot up in haste to look around;But ah, the silly things!They did not know that when spring comesIn such a vapory way,She only thinks to try her power,And never means to stay.So when the reckless sprouts had seenTheir fill of mist and mud,Spring went away and left them e'enTo manage as they could.Then winter rose in fearful rage,And fumed and flurried round;He shut the waters in a cage,And closed the opening ground.Like true philosophers, my plants,Though sorely pinched and frayed,Braved the old tyrant in his rants,And stood there undismayed,Till spring, with airs and sunny smile,Came tripping o'er the ground,Leading her orchestra, the while,In many a tricksy sound.And buds above, below, burst forth,In tints of emerald dressed,To see the wild spring gain the north,My tulips with the rest.When she'd subdued the rigid earth,And conquered all the cold,My plants, to grace her victory, donnedTheir crimson and their gold.Out flashed their flames, their feathers tossedUpon the ambient air,And nicest choice was dazed betweenBy bloemen and Bizarre.But when the gentle sway of springMust yield to summer's pride,My tulips fainted with regret,And dropped their heads and died.

STERNold Janus shook his sceptre

Over a shivering land,

Yet spring, one day, with a warning came

And slipped it from his hand.

She brought him torrents from the skies,

And rivers down the street;

Melted his crown about his eyes,

And thawed his icy feet.

My tulip bulbs in goodly rows,Scenting the loosened springs,Shot up in haste to look around;But ah, the silly things!They did not know that when spring comesIn such a vapory way,She only thinks to try her power,And never means to stay.

My tulip bulbs in goodly rows,

Scenting the loosened springs,

Shot up in haste to look around;

But ah, the silly things!

They did not know that when spring comes

In such a vapory way,

She only thinks to try her power,

And never means to stay.

So when the reckless sprouts had seenTheir fill of mist and mud,Spring went away and left them e'enTo manage as they could.Then winter rose in fearful rage,And fumed and flurried round;He shut the waters in a cage,And closed the opening ground.

So when the reckless sprouts had seen

Their fill of mist and mud,

Spring went away and left them e'en

To manage as they could.

Then winter rose in fearful rage,

And fumed and flurried round;

He shut the waters in a cage,

And closed the opening ground.

Like true philosophers, my plants,Though sorely pinched and frayed,Braved the old tyrant in his rants,And stood there undismayed,Till spring, with airs and sunny smile,Came tripping o'er the ground,Leading her orchestra, the while,In many a tricksy sound.

Like true philosophers, my plants,

Though sorely pinched and frayed,

Braved the old tyrant in his rants,

And stood there undismayed,

Till spring, with airs and sunny smile,

Came tripping o'er the ground,

Leading her orchestra, the while,

In many a tricksy sound.

And buds above, below, burst forth,In tints of emerald dressed,To see the wild spring gain the north,My tulips with the rest.When she'd subdued the rigid earth,And conquered all the cold,My plants, to grace her victory, donnedTheir crimson and their gold.

And buds above, below, burst forth,

In tints of emerald dressed,

To see the wild spring gain the north,

My tulips with the rest.

When she'd subdued the rigid earth,

And conquered all the cold,

My plants, to grace her victory, donned

Their crimson and their gold.

Out flashed their flames, their feathers tossedUpon the ambient air,And nicest choice was dazed betweenBy bloemen and Bizarre.But when the gentle sway of springMust yield to summer's pride,My tulips fainted with regret,And dropped their heads and died.

Out flashed their flames, their feathers tossed

Upon the ambient air,

And nicest choice was dazed between

By bloemen and Bizarre.

But when the gentle sway of spring

Must yield to summer's pride,

My tulips fainted with regret,

And dropped their heads and died.

ISAWit with leafy honors crownedBy a crystal streamlet's side,And its long, fair boughs in their graceful playStooped down to the gentle tide.I lingered once beneath its shadeAt the noon of a summer day;When youth's high pulse through my temples beatIn its swift and burning way.And many a thought of my questioning heartWent out on restless wing,To the unseen's far and shoreless waves,Some tidings thence to bring.Blest, blest and beautiful seemed all things,Green earth and the holy sky,Andsoulwith its wondrous, fearful gifts,And doom of mystery.Years passed; from distant and stranger homesI came with a colder brow;But at nature's altars wreathed and pure,My spirit still could bow.The crystal stream on its winding wayMy footsteps traced once more,And a dim sweet thought of other daysLed softly on before,To where a circling emerald wallCaught the laughing waves to rest,For a moment charmed and placidlyIn its violet-scented breast.And there, far down in the stillness glossed,All riven, bleak, and gray,Was a giant form that frowned above,Though kissed by the summer ray.Then a mist came over the sunbeam's light,The breeze swept chillingly,And something mourned within my heart,But not for the blighted tree.For a vision came with a lordly bow,And stood beside me there,With pride-wreathed lips and a clear dark eye—Away—'twas a thing of air.Yet a being like it on earth once dwelt,With men thus high and cold;But the valley's clods press heavilyAnd mute o'er the spoils they hold.A deep pall covered the wasted corse,A deeper the passing soul;A name that stands like yon gray, sad tree,Was the proud man's earthly goal.

ISAWit with leafy honors crownedBy a crystal streamlet's side,And its long, fair boughs in their graceful playStooped down to the gentle tide.

ISAWit with leafy honors crowned

By a crystal streamlet's side,

And its long, fair boughs in their graceful play

Stooped down to the gentle tide.

I lingered once beneath its shadeAt the noon of a summer day;When youth's high pulse through my temples beatIn its swift and burning way.

I lingered once beneath its shade

At the noon of a summer day;

When youth's high pulse through my temples beat

In its swift and burning way.

And many a thought of my questioning heartWent out on restless wing,To the unseen's far and shoreless waves,Some tidings thence to bring.

And many a thought of my questioning heart

Went out on restless wing,

To the unseen's far and shoreless waves,

Some tidings thence to bring.

Blest, blest and beautiful seemed all things,Green earth and the holy sky,Andsoulwith its wondrous, fearful gifts,And doom of mystery.

Blest, blest and beautiful seemed all things,

Green earth and the holy sky,

Andsoulwith its wondrous, fearful gifts,

And doom of mystery.

Years passed; from distant and stranger homesI came with a colder brow;But at nature's altars wreathed and pure,My spirit still could bow.

Years passed; from distant and stranger homes

I came with a colder brow;

But at nature's altars wreathed and pure,

My spirit still could bow.

The crystal stream on its winding wayMy footsteps traced once more,And a dim sweet thought of other daysLed softly on before,

The crystal stream on its winding way

My footsteps traced once more,

And a dim sweet thought of other days

Led softly on before,

To where a circling emerald wallCaught the laughing waves to rest,For a moment charmed and placidlyIn its violet-scented breast.

To where a circling emerald wall

Caught the laughing waves to rest,

For a moment charmed and placidly

In its violet-scented breast.

And there, far down in the stillness glossed,All riven, bleak, and gray,Was a giant form that frowned above,Though kissed by the summer ray.

And there, far down in the stillness glossed,

All riven, bleak, and gray,

Was a giant form that frowned above,

Though kissed by the summer ray.

Then a mist came over the sunbeam's light,The breeze swept chillingly,And something mourned within my heart,But not for the blighted tree.

Then a mist came over the sunbeam's light,

The breeze swept chillingly,

And something mourned within my heart,

But not for the blighted tree.

For a vision came with a lordly bow,And stood beside me there,With pride-wreathed lips and a clear dark eye—Away—'twas a thing of air.

For a vision came with a lordly bow,

And stood beside me there,

With pride-wreathed lips and a clear dark eye—

Away—'twas a thing of air.

Yet a being like it on earth once dwelt,With men thus high and cold;But the valley's clods press heavilyAnd mute o'er the spoils they hold.

Yet a being like it on earth once dwelt,

With men thus high and cold;

But the valley's clods press heavily

And mute o'er the spoils they hold.

A deep pall covered the wasted corse,A deeper the passing soul;A name that stands like yon gray, sad tree,Was the proud man's earthly goal.

A deep pall covered the wasted corse,

A deeper the passing soul;

A name that stands like yon gray, sad tree,

Was the proud man's earthly goal.

BY S. M. MONTGOMERY.

OH! who would live on in this dreary world,When the light of Hope has fled,And the friends of old are changed and false,And faith and trust are dead;When the heart is crushed 'neath its weight of grief,And the smile of joy is gone,When "love's young dream" is past—all past,Say, who would linger on?Let me die! ay, lay me down to restIn the dreamless sleep of death,Where flowers send forth, at dewy eve,Their pure and perfumed breath;Where the bright sunshine will gently fall,And soft winds murmuring by,Will my requiem chant, in whispers low,Through the green grass waving high.

OH! who would live on in this dreary world,

When the light of Hope has fled,

And the friends of old are changed and false,

And faith and trust are dead;

When the heart is crushed 'neath its weight of grief,

And the smile of joy is gone,

When "love's young dream" is past—all past,

Say, who would linger on?

Let me die! ay, lay me down to restIn the dreamless sleep of death,Where flowers send forth, at dewy eve,Their pure and perfumed breath;Where the bright sunshine will gently fall,And soft winds murmuring by,Will my requiem chant, in whispers low,Through the green grass waving high.

Let me die! ay, lay me down to rest

In the dreamless sleep of death,

Where flowers send forth, at dewy eve,

Their pure and perfumed breath;

Where the bright sunshine will gently fall,

And soft winds murmuring by,

Will my requiem chant, in whispers low,

Through the green grass waving high.

A FRAGMENT.

BY N. W. BRIDGE.

NOWheed the counsel of a sage,And closely keep in thy warm cageThis cold and dreary winter through;See that ye shun the winds of March,No April showers thy plumes unstarch,Nor skies of May thy crest bedew.And then, perchance, sweet airs of JuneWill find our Birdie's throat in tune,And ye through valleys green may rove,And o'er the sunlit emerald hills,Within the cool refreshing grove,Along the marge of winding rills;And gather flowers of varied hue,'Mid grassy beds and moss-grown banks,And on them smile, and kiss them, too,While they will sweetly blush their thanks,And drink thy health in drops of dew;Inhale the blossom-scented breezeWithin thy oscillating zone,And never cough, nor even sneeze,So sound thy swan-like throat has grown.Then will thy happy voice be heardAmid sweet spring's melodious throng;No other heavenly warbling birdWill sing so joyous, oft, and long.

NOWheed the counsel of a sage,

And closely keep in thy warm cage

This cold and dreary winter through;

See that ye shun the winds of March,

No April showers thy plumes unstarch,

Nor skies of May thy crest bedew.

And then, perchance, sweet airs of June

Will find our Birdie's throat in tune,

And ye through valleys green may rove,

And o'er the sunlit emerald hills,

Within the cool refreshing grove,

Along the marge of winding rills;

And gather flowers of varied hue,

'Mid grassy beds and moss-grown banks,

And on them smile, and kiss them, too,

While they will sweetly blush their thanks,

And drink thy health in drops of dew;

Inhale the blossom-scented breeze

Within thy oscillating zone,

And never cough, nor even sneeze,

So sound thy swan-like throat has grown.

Then will thy happy voice be heard

Amid sweet spring's melodious throng;

No other heavenly warbling bird

Will sing so joyous, oft, and long.

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE,

BY WM. A. KENYON.

OFTEN, at sunset, on the mountain side,Beneath an aged oak I take my seat,My vision roaming o'er the plain spread wide,Whose panorama opens at my feet.Here scolds the river, thus in foam to break,Then slow meanders down the dim afar,Toward the spread waters of the sleeping lake,Where smiles in azure the fair evening star.To these crowned summits—dim old colonnades—The gentle twilight still a last ray lends,E'en while the cloud-car of the queen of shadesWhite o'er yon far horizon's verge ascends.Spreading through all the air, with gothic swell,Soft sounds of worship bid the ear attend;The trav'ler stops to hear the distant bellWith day's last noises holy concerts blend.But these fair tableaux have no charm for me;My sight indifferent is o'er them led,Like the fleet shadows that at noon I see:Suns for the living cannot warm the dead.From hill to hill in vain I turn my glance,From south to north, from sunrise to his rest,I search at every point this vast expanse;Nowhere doth fortune wait on my behest.What make these valleys and these homes? I cry;Vain objects all; their charm for me has flown:Rocks, rivers, forests, loved retreats, I sigh,One being absent, every soul is gone.What signifies the sun to rise or set?And what a heaven sombre or serene?Returning days no joy for me beget,And still unmoved I gaze on every scene.Round could I follow the sun's vast career,My eyes would see but deserts wild and void;Nothing he shines on can my bosom cheer:I wish for nothing here below enjoyed.Perchance beyond the borders of this earth,Where the true sun looks down from other skies,Could I but cast the slough of this world's birth,What I so much have dreamed would meet my eyes.There, filled from fountains whither thought aspires,There might I find again, with hope and love,This fair ideal every soul desires—Find her who has no name save there above.Borne on Aurora's car, why can I not,Vague object of my vows, launch forth to thee?Why on this earth of exile is my lot,With nothing common between it and me?Leaves in the prairie fall, with passage brief,And evening breezes to some dale convey;And I—am I not like a withered leaf?Ye stormy north winds, bear me hence away!

OFTEN, at sunset, on the mountain side,Beneath an aged oak I take my seat,My vision roaming o'er the plain spread wide,Whose panorama opens at my feet.

OFTEN, at sunset, on the mountain side,

Beneath an aged oak I take my seat,

My vision roaming o'er the plain spread wide,

Whose panorama opens at my feet.

Here scolds the river, thus in foam to break,Then slow meanders down the dim afar,Toward the spread waters of the sleeping lake,Where smiles in azure the fair evening star.

Here scolds the river, thus in foam to break,

Then slow meanders down the dim afar,

Toward the spread waters of the sleeping lake,

Where smiles in azure the fair evening star.

To these crowned summits—dim old colonnades—The gentle twilight still a last ray lends,E'en while the cloud-car of the queen of shadesWhite o'er yon far horizon's verge ascends.

To these crowned summits—dim old colonnades—

The gentle twilight still a last ray lends,

E'en while the cloud-car of the queen of shades

White o'er yon far horizon's verge ascends.

Spreading through all the air, with gothic swell,Soft sounds of worship bid the ear attend;The trav'ler stops to hear the distant bellWith day's last noises holy concerts blend.

Spreading through all the air, with gothic swell,

Soft sounds of worship bid the ear attend;

The trav'ler stops to hear the distant bell

With day's last noises holy concerts blend.

But these fair tableaux have no charm for me;My sight indifferent is o'er them led,Like the fleet shadows that at noon I see:Suns for the living cannot warm the dead.

But these fair tableaux have no charm for me;

My sight indifferent is o'er them led,

Like the fleet shadows that at noon I see:

Suns for the living cannot warm the dead.

From hill to hill in vain I turn my glance,From south to north, from sunrise to his rest,I search at every point this vast expanse;Nowhere doth fortune wait on my behest.

From hill to hill in vain I turn my glance,

From south to north, from sunrise to his rest,

I search at every point this vast expanse;

Nowhere doth fortune wait on my behest.

What make these valleys and these homes? I cry;Vain objects all; their charm for me has flown:Rocks, rivers, forests, loved retreats, I sigh,One being absent, every soul is gone.

What make these valleys and these homes? I cry;

Vain objects all; their charm for me has flown:

Rocks, rivers, forests, loved retreats, I sigh,

One being absent, every soul is gone.

What signifies the sun to rise or set?And what a heaven sombre or serene?Returning days no joy for me beget,And still unmoved I gaze on every scene.

What signifies the sun to rise or set?

And what a heaven sombre or serene?

Returning days no joy for me beget,

And still unmoved I gaze on every scene.

Round could I follow the sun's vast career,My eyes would see but deserts wild and void;Nothing he shines on can my bosom cheer:I wish for nothing here below enjoyed.

Round could I follow the sun's vast career,

My eyes would see but deserts wild and void;

Nothing he shines on can my bosom cheer:

I wish for nothing here below enjoyed.

Perchance beyond the borders of this earth,Where the true sun looks down from other skies,Could I but cast the slough of this world's birth,What I so much have dreamed would meet my eyes.

Perchance beyond the borders of this earth,

Where the true sun looks down from other skies,

Could I but cast the slough of this world's birth,

What I so much have dreamed would meet my eyes.

There, filled from fountains whither thought aspires,There might I find again, with hope and love,This fair ideal every soul desires—Find her who has no name save there above.

There, filled from fountains whither thought aspires,

There might I find again, with hope and love,

This fair ideal every soul desires—

Find her who has no name save there above.

Borne on Aurora's car, why can I not,Vague object of my vows, launch forth to thee?Why on this earth of exile is my lot,With nothing common between it and me?

Borne on Aurora's car, why can I not,

Vague object of my vows, launch forth to thee?

Why on this earth of exile is my lot,

With nothing common between it and me?

Leaves in the prairie fall, with passage brief,And evening breezes to some dale convey;And I—am I not like a withered leaf?Ye stormy north winds, bear me hence away!

Leaves in the prairie fall, with passage brief,

And evening breezes to some dale convey;

And I—am I not like a withered leaf?

Ye stormy north winds, bear me hence away!

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