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To joyful strings,

Giver of all fair things,

Of the delights that in thine empire live, Who sings of pallid primroses, that fringe How warmer suns flood thee with lavish rays, Departing Winter's mantle, and the gust How broader moons upon thy harvests gazeOf hidden violets; or lauds the tinge

So Heaven gifts greatly those who greatly Of roses, hymned by toiling bees, a-dust

give! With golden spoil-his music is unjust, If in the wiser measure of his lays,

-St. James' Magazine. Thomas Hood. Sweet Matron of the Year, he have no song To speak the ripened glories of thy days,

When through the evening long

The sunlight strong
Wrestles among the meshes of the haze,
And o'er the deep blue garments of the Night

Sheds ruddy light,
And spangles all their edges with its rays.

And does he quite forget
How the first hour we met,

Ere the sealed kiss had set,
Mother of Earth, whose full-orbed bosom feeds

This pulse was stirred ? The sons of men—the hungry round thy knee

How were the vows of each Gather in hope ; with grateful trust in thee.

Too deep for sound to reach,
A-field with crescent keen the reaper speeds,

Free from the chains of speech,
Plunging at early morn

Felt, but not heard !
Among the billowy corn,
Like a bold swimmer in a golden sea.
Of things inanimate thou know'st the needs !

How did I gather fast
And from the trees, before the Winter drear,

Moments too ripe to last,
The dead-leaves, bronze and brown,

Moments forever past,
Thou shakest down

Moments divine !
Among the ferns and mosses at the roots,

But when the parting came,
To grow again in fruits,

Whose was the grief and blame,
And gla
the branches of another year.

Whose was the loss and shame?

Mine, only mine!



The winged and downy seeds thy gales bestow
In cunning nooks, beyond the search of frost,
That in the coming seasons they may blow,
And not the simplest wild-flower o'er be lost,
Nor tiniest foundling, by hard parent tost

Into thy gentle lap,

May ever hap
Upon a grave untimely in the snow ;
Such is thy tender providence. Nor yet|

Dost thou at all forget
The Present in the Future's cares !

With fruit and flowers and corn,

Thy plenteous horn
Scatters its o'erbrimmed riches on the ground !

On the slow wings of day
Float the sad years away,
Till the dark hair is gray,

Till youth is o'er,
Till the warm blood is gone,
Till the bright cheek is wan,
And till the eyes which shone

Shine never more.

Yet in the dreams of night
Comes back my lost Delight,
Making the darkness bright,

Leaving me never,
Speaks in the olden tone,
My hand within his own,
Words which are mine alone,

Now and forever.


I love thee, Autumn ; when thy drowsy air
Trembles in concert with the aspen's leaves,
When birds are piping down among the sheaves
And in the berried hedges everywhere.
Ah, fain would I to some dim bower escape,

Where round the musky grape
The sunlight with the shadow interweaves ;
There would I knit such music in my lines

To frame a ministrelsy

That should be worthier thee,
And mould my fancies to a nobler shape,
Singing, beneath the coronal of vines,

When from a dream like this
Wakened by tears of bliss,
How the young morning's kiss

Thrills me with pain!
How dull the day appears,
Seen through the mist of tears,
Till my horizon clears
Nightly again!

- Chambers's Journal.


From Bentley's Miscellany. Châtelaine sans Château !” It was a face of LA CHATELAINE SANS CHATEAU; OR A great beauty, with a low Greek brow and DOUBLED-DOWN LEAF IN A MAN'S LIFE.

fair hair, and those large, soft, liquid eyes

that you only see in a Southern, and that I.

looked at you from the sketch with an earTHE CRAYON HEAD IN CAVENDIST'S PORT- nest, wistful regard, half childlike, half melFOLIO.

ancholy. He looked up, glanced at the Last week I was dining with Cavendish, sketch, and stretched out his hand hastily, in his house on the Lung' Arno, as I passed but I held it away from him. “I want to through Florence, where he fills never mind look at it; it is a beautiful head; I wish we what post in the British Legation. The night had the original here now. "La Châtelaine was oppressively hot; a still, sultry sky sans Château !'--what an unsatisfactory and brooded over the city, and the stars shining original title !-her dot, I should suppose, out from a purple mist on to the Campanile consisted of châteaux en Espagne! Who is near, and the slopes of Bellosguardo in the the original ? distance. It was intensely hot; not all the As I spoke, holding the sketch up where iced wines on his table could remove the the light from the room within fell on what oppressive warmth of the evening air, which I had no doubt was a likeness of some fair made both him and me think of evenings we face that had beguiled his time in days gone had spent together in the voluptuous lassi- by, a souvenir of one of his loves more lasttude of the East, in days gone by, when we ing than souvenirs of such episodes in one's had travelled there, boys of twenty or life often are, if merely trusted to that intwenty-two, fresh to life, to new impressions, constant capricieuse, Memory; I might have to all that gives “greenness to the grass, hit him with a bullet rather than asked him and glory to the flower.” The Arno ran on about a mere etude à deux crayons, for he under its bridge, and we leaned out of the shuddered, that sultry night! and drank off balcony where we were sitting and smoking, some white Hermitage quickly. while I tossed over, without thinking much “I had forgotten that was in the portfoof what I was doing, a portfolio of his lio,” he said, hurriedly, as he took it from sketches. Position has lost for art many me and put it behind him, with its face good artists since Sir George Beaumont: against the wall, as though it had been the Cavendish is one of them; his sketches are sketch of a Medusa. masterly ; and had he been a vagrant Bohe- “What do you take it away for? I had mian instead of an English peer, there might not half done looking at it. Who is the have been pictures on the walls of the R. A. original ?" to console one for the meretricious daubs “One I don't care to mention.” and pet vulgarities of “Parting Cheers," " Because ?” hideous babies, and third-class carriage in- “Because the sight of that picture gives teriors, which makes one's accustomed an- me a twinge of what you and I ought to be nual visit to the rooms that once saw the hardened against-regrèt." beauties of Reynolds, and Wilson, and Law- “Regret! Is any woman worth that?" rence, a peine forte et dure to anybody of “ She was.decent refinement and educated taste. The “I don't believe it; and I thought you portfolio stood near me, and I took out a and I thought alike on such points. Of all sketch or two now and then between the the women for whom we feel twinges of conpauses of our conversation, smoking a nar- science or self-reproach in melancholy moghilé of Cavendish's, and looking lazily up ments, how many loved us? Moralists and the river, while the moonlight shone on poets sentimentalize over it, and make it a Dante's city, that so long forgot, and has, so stalking-horse whereby to magnify our sins late, remembered him.

and consign us more utterly to perdition, “ By Jove! what a pretty face this is ! while they do for themselves a little bit of Who's the original ?” I asked him, drawing poetic morality cheaply; but in reality there out a female head, done with great finish in are uncommonly few women who can love, pastel, under which was written, in his own to begin with, and in the second, vanity, hand, " Florelle," and, in a woman's, "La avarice, jealousy, desires for pretty toilettes,

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one or other, or all combined, have quite as of society as it was—and to spend my days much to do with their sacrifice' for us as in the mountains with my sketching-block any thing."

and my gun. But I did not like Eaux « Quite true; but il y a femmes et femmes, Bonnes ; it was intensely warm. There were perhaps, and it was not of that sort of re- several people who knew me really; no end gret that .! spoke.”

of others who got hold of my name, and “Of what sort, then?”

wanted me to join their riding parties, and Cavendish didn't answer : he broke the balls, and picnics. That was not what I ash off his Manilla, and smoked silently wanted, so I left the place and went on to some moments, leaning over the balcony Luz, hoping to find solitude there. That and watching the monotonous flow of the valley of Luz-you know it ?-is it not as Arno, with deeper gloom on his face than I lovely as any artist's dream of Arcadia in remembered to have seen there any time be- the evening, when the sunset light has fore. I was sorry I had chanced to light passed off the meadows and corn-lands of upon a sketch that had brought him back the lower valley, and just lingers golden and such painful recollections of whatever kind rosy on the crests of the mountains, while they might be, and I smoked too, sending the glowworms are coming out among the the perfumed tobacco out into the still sul- grasses, and the lights are being lit in the try night that was brooding over Florence. little homesteads nestling among their or

Of what sort ? ” said he, abruptly after chards one above another on the hill-sides, some minutes' pause. “Shall I tell you ? and its hundred streams are rushing down Then you can tell me whether I was a fool the mountains and under the trees, foaming, who made one grand mistake, or a sensible and tumbling, and rejoicing on their way! man of the world who kept himself from a When I have had my fill of ambition and of grand folly. I have been often in doubt pleasure, I shall go and live at Luz, I think. myself.”

When! Well! you are quite right to repeat He leaned back, his face in shadow, 80 it ironically; that time will never come, I dare that I could not see it, and with the Arno's say, and why should it? I am not the stuff to ebb and flow making mournful river music cogitate away my years in country solitudes. under our windows, while the purple glories If prizes are worth winning, they are worth of the summer night deepened round Giot- working for till one's death ; a man should to's Tower, where, in centuries past, the Im- never give up the field while he has life left mortal of Florence had sat dreaming of the in him. Well! I went to Luz, and spent a Paradiso, the mortals passing by whispering pleasant week or so there, knocking over a

" the man who had seen hell,"_and few chamois or izards, or sketching on the the light within the room shone on the olives sides of the Pic du Midi, or Tourmalet, but and grapes, the cut-glass and silver claret-chiefly lying about under the great beechjugs, the crimson Moltepulciano and the trees in the shade, listening to the tinkle of white Hermitage on the table, he told me the sheep-bells, like an idle fellow, as I the story of “ La Châtelaine sans Château.” meant to be for the time I had allotted my

self. One day—" He stopped and blew

some whiffs from his Manilla into the air. THE FLOWER OF THE VALLEY OF LUZ. He seemed to linger over the prelude to his

“ Two years ago I went into the South of story, and shrink from going on with the France. I was attaché at Constantinople story itself, I thought; and he smothered a then, you remember, and the climate had sigh as he raised himself. “How warm the told upon me. I was not over well, and night is ; we shall have a tempest. Reach somebody recommended me the waters of me that wine, there's a good fellow. No, Eaux Bonnes. The waters I put little faith not the Amontillado, the Château Margaux, in, but in the air of the Pyrenees, in the please ; one can't drink hot, dry wines such change from diplomacy to a life en rase a night as this. How well I remember that campagne, I put much, and I went to Eaux splendid Madeira of your father's ; is there Bonnes accordingly, for July and August, much of it left at Longleaf now? We used with a vow to forswear any society I might to have pleasant vacations in those college find at the baths I had had only too much I days at your governor's, Hervey; some few

him as


years have gone since then-ten, twelve, over the valley, a heavy storm had come up, fifteen-how many ? More than that, by and, somehow or other, I lost the way, and Jove! But to satisfy your curiosity about could not tell where I was, whether St. this crayon study. One day I thought I Sauveur was to the left or the right, behind would go to Gavarnie. I had heard a good me or in front of me. The horse, a miserdeal, of course, about the great marble wall, able little Pyrenean beast, was too frightand the mighty waterfalls, the rocks of ened by the lightning to take the matter Marboré, and the Brèche de Roland, but, as into his hands as he had done on the road it chanced, I had never been up to the Cer- through the Chaos, and I saw nothing for it cle, nor, indeed, in that part of the Midi at but to surrender and come to grief in any all, so I went. The gods favored me, I re- way the elements best pleased; swearing at member: there were no mists, the sun was myself for not having stayed at the inn at brilliant, and the great amphitheatre was Gavarnie or Gedre; wishing myself at the for once unobscured ; the white marble flash- vilest mountain auberge that ever sheltered ing brown and purple, rose and golden, in men and mules pêle-mêle ; and calling mythe light; the cascades tumbling and leap-self hard names for not having listened to ing down into the gigantic basin; the vast my landlady's dissuasions of that morning plains of snow glittering in the sunshine ; as I left her door, from my project of going the twin rocks standing in the clear air, to Gavarnie without a guide, which seemed straight and fluted as any two Corinthian to her the acme of all she had ever known columns hewn and chiselled by man. Good or heard of English strangers' fooleries. Heaven ! before a scene like Gavarnie, what The storm only increased, the great black true artist must not fling away his colors rocks echoing the roll of the thunder, and and his brushes in despair and disgust with the Gave lashing itself into fury in its nar. his own puerility and impotence? What can row bed; happily I was on decently level be transferred to canvas of such a scene as ground, and the horse þeing, I suppose, tolthat? What does the best beauty of Claude, erably used to storms like it, I pushed him the grandest sublimity of Salvator, the great- on at last, by dint of blows and conjurations est power of Poussin, look beside Nature combined, to where, in the flashes of the when she reigns as she reigns at Gavar- lightning, I saw what looked to me like the nie? I am an art worshipper, as you know; outline of a homestead : it stood in a cleft but there are times in my life, places on earth, between two shelving sides of rock, and a that make me ready to renounce art forever! narrow bridle-path led up to it, through The day was beautiful, and thinking I knew high yews and a tangled wilderness of rhodothe country pretty well, I took no guide. I dendrons, boxwood, and birch—one of those hate them when I can possibly dispense with green slopes, so common in the Pyrenees, them. But the mist soon swooped down that look in full sunlight doubly bright and over the Cercle, and I began to wish I had Arcadian-like, from the contrast of the dark, had one when I turned my horse's head back bare, perpendicular rocks that shut them in. again. You know the route, of course ? I could see but little of its beauty then in Through the Chaos,-Heaven knows it is the fog that shrouded both it and me, but I deserving of its name !-down the break- saw the shape and semblance of a house, and neck little bridle path, along the Gave, and urging the horse up the ascent, thundered over the Scia bridge to St. Sauveur. You on its gate-panels with my whip-handle till know it? Then you know that it is much the rocks round echoed again with the tintaeasier to break your neck down it than to marre. find your way by it, though by some hazard “ There was no answer, and I knocked I did not break my neck, nor the animals again a little louder, if possible, than before. knees either, but managed to get over the I was wet to the skin with that wretched bridge without falling into the torrent, and storm, and swore not mildly at the in hospitto pick my way safely down into more level able roof that would not admit me under it. ground; once there, I thought I should I knocked again, inclined to pick up a bit easily enough find my way to St. Sauveur, of granite and beat the panel in; and at but I was mistaken ; the mists had spread last a face an old woman's weather-beaten



face, but with black Southern eyes that had trayal of a face whose expression Raphael lost little of their fire with age looked and Sassoferrato themselves would have through at me and asked me what I wanted. failed to render in its earnest, innocent, ele

« I want shelter if you can give it me,' vated regard. She was very youngI answered her. I have lost my way com

Standing with reluctant feet ing from Gavarnie, and am drenched through.

Where the brook and river meetI will pay you liberally if you will give me

Womanhood and childhood fleet.' an asylum till the weather clears.'

“Her eyes blazed like coals through the Good heavens, I am quoting poetry! what little grille.

will think of me, Hervey, to have gone “ M'sieu, we take no money here—have back to our Wertherian and Tennysonian you mistaken it for an inn ? Come in if days so far as to repeat a triplet of Longfelyou want shelter, in Heaven's name! The low? No man quotes those poets after his Holy Virgin forbid we should refuse refuge salad days, except in a moment of weakness. to any!'

Caramba! why has one any weaknesses at " And she crossed herself and uttered all ? we ought not to have any; we live in some conjurations to Mary to protect them an atmosphere that would kill them all if from all wolves in sheep's clothing, and they were not as obstinate and indestructible guard their dwelling from all harm, by which as all other weeds whose seeds will linger I

suppose she thought I spoke fairly and and peer up and spoil the ground, let one looked harmless, but might possibly be a root them out ever so! I owed you an thief or an assassin, or both in one. She apology for that lapse into Longfellow, and unlocked the gate, and calling to a boy to I have made it. Am I to go on with this take my horse into a shed, admitted me un- story?” der a covered passage-way into the house, He laughed as he spoke, and his laugh which looked like part, and a very ruined was by no means heartfelt (but that is not part, too, of what had probably been, in the such a lusus naturæ that I need mention it). times of Henri-Quatre and his grandfather, I told him to go on, and he lighted another a feudal château, fenced by natural ramparts Manilla and obeyed me, while the Arno murfrom the rocks that surrounded it, shutting mured on its way, and the dusky, sultry in the green slope on which it stood, with clouds brooded nearer the earth, and the only one egress, the path through which I lights were lit in the distant windows of the had ascended into the level plain below. palace of the Marchese Acqua d'Oro, that She marshalled me through this covered fairest of Florentines, who rouges so indisway into an interior passage, dark and criminately and flirts her fan so inimitably, vaulted, cheerless enough, and opened a low to one of whose balls we were going that oak door, ushering me into a chamber, bare, night. gloomy, yet with something of lost grand- Cavendish settled himself back in his eur and past state lingering about its great chair, with his face darkened again by the hearth, its massive walls, its stained win- shadow cast on it from the pillar of the baldows, and its ragged tapestry hangings. cony; and took his Manilla out of his mouth. The woman went up to one of the windows “She looked incongruous in that bare and and spoke with a gentleness to which I gloomy room, out of place with it, and out should have never thought her voice could of keeping with the old woman-a French have been attuned with its harsh patois. peasant-woman, weather-beaten and bronzed,

" " Mon enfant, v'là un m'sieu étranger qui such as you see any day by the score riding vient chercher un abri pour un petit peu. to market or sitting knitting at their cot. Veux-tu lui parler ?'

tage-doors. It was impossible that the girl “ The young girl she spoke to turned, could be either daughter or granddaughter, rose, and, coming forward, bade me welcome or any relation at all to her. In that room with the grace, simplicity, and the naïve she looked more as one of these myrtles freedom from embarrassment of a child, might do, set down in the stifling gloomy looking up in my face with her soft clear horrors of a London-poor street than any eyes. She was like-No matter ! you have thing else, save that in certain traces about seen that crayon head, it is but a bad por- | the chamber, as I told you, there were relics

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