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In the heave of the surge, than ever stole
From mortal ministrel's hand.

There's mighty music in the roar

Of the oaks on the mountain's side,

When the whirlwind bursts on their foreheads hoar, And the lightnings flash blue and wide.

There's mighty music in the swell
Of winter's midnight wave-
When all above is the thunder-peal,
And all below is the grave.

There's music in the mournful swing
Of the lonely village-bell;

And think of the spirit upon the wing,
Released by its solemn knell.

There's music in the forest stream,
As it plays through the deep ravine,
Where never summer's breath or beam
Has pierced its woodland screen.

There's music in the thundering sweep
Of the mountain waterfall,

As its torrents struggle, and foam, and leap
From the brow of its marble wall.

There's music in the dawning morn,

Ere the lark his pinion dries—

"Tis the rush of the breeze through the dewy corn, Through the garden's perfumed dyes.

There's music in the twilight cloud,
As the clanging wild swans spring;

As homeward the screaming ravens crowd,
Like squadrons upon the wing.

There's music in the depth of night,

When the world is still and dim,

And the stars flame out, in their pomp of light,
Like thrones of the Cherubim.


Ir ever you should come to Modena,
(Where, among other relics, you may see
Tassoni's bucket-but 'tis not the true one)
Stop at a palace near the Reggio-gate,
Dwelt in of old by one of the Donati.
Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
And numerous fountains, statues, cypresses,
Will long detain you; but before you go,
Enter the house-forget it not, I pray you—
And look awhile upon a picture there:
'Tis of a lady in her earliest youth,
The last of that illustrious family.
He who observes it, ere he passes on,
Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again,
That he may call it up when far away.

She sits, inclining forward as to speak,
Her lips half-open, and her finger up,

As though she said, “Beware!”—her vest of gold, Broider'd with flowers, and clasp'd from head to foot, An emerald stone in every golden clasp;

And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,

A coronet of pearls.

But then her face

So lovely-yet so arch-so full of mirth,
The overflowings of an innocent heart-

It haunts me still, though many a year has fled,
Like some wild melody!

Alone it hangs

Over a mouldering heirloom, its companion,
An oaken chest, half-eaten by the worm,
But richly carved by Anthony of Trent,
With Scripture-stories from the Life of Christ;
A chest that came from Venice, and had held
The ducal robes of some old ancestor-
That, by the way, it may be true or false-
But don't forget the picture; and you will not,
When you have heard the tale they told me there.
She was an only child-her name Ginevra,
The joy, the pride of an indulgent father,
And in her fifteenth year became a bride,
Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria,
Her playmate from her youth, and her first love.
Just as she looks there in her bridal dress,
She was all gentleness, all gaiety,

Her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue.
But now the day was come, the day, the hour;
And in the lustre of her youth, she gave

Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.

Great was the joy; but at the nuptial feast,
When all sate down, the bride herself was wanting;
Nor was she to be found!-Her father cried,
"'Tis but to make a trial of our love!"

And fill'd his glass to all; but his hand shook,
And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.
'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco,
Laughing and looking back, and flying still,
Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger.
But now, alas! she was not to be found;
Nor from that hour could any thing be guess'd,

But-that she was not!

Weary of his life,

Francesco flew to Venice, and embarking,
Flung it away in battle with the Turk.

Donato lived-and long might you have seen
An old man, wandering as in quest of something,
Something he could not find-he knew not what!
When he was gone, the house remain'd a while
Silent and tenantless-then went to strangers.

Full fifty years were past, and all forgotten,
When on an idle day, a day of search,
'Mid the old lumber in the gallery,

That mouldering chest was noticed; and 'twas said
By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra,
"Why not remove it from its lurking-place?"
'Twas done as soon as said; but on the way
It burst-it fell; and, lo! a skeleton!
With here and there a pearl, an emerald-stone,
A golden clasp clasping a shred of gold:
All else had perish'd, save a wedding-ring
And a small seal, her mother's legacy,
Engraven with a name, the name of both-
66 "Ginevra."

There had she found a grave!

Within that chest had she conceal'd herself,
Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy;
When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there,
Fasten'd her down for ever!


THE Table Rock, from which the falls of the Niagara may be contemplated in all their grandeur, lies on an exact level with the edge of the cataract on the Canada side, and indeed forms a part of the precipice over which the water gushes. To gain this position, it is necessary to descend a steep

bank, and to follow a path that winds among shrubbery and trees, which entirely conceal from the eye the scene that awaits him who traverses it. When near the termination of this road, a few steps carried me beyond all these obstructions, and a magnificent amphitheatre of cataracts burst upon my view with appalling suddenness and majesty. However, in a moment the scene was concealed from my eyes by a dense cloud of spray, which involved me so completely, that I did not dare to extricate myself. A mingled and thundering rushing filled my ears. I could see nothing except when the wind made a chasm in the spray, and then tremendous cataracts seemed to encompass me on every side, while below, a raging and foamy gulf of undiscoverable extent lashed the rocks with its hissing waves, and swallowed, under a horrible obscurity, the smoking floods that were precipitated into its bosom.

At first the sky was obscured by clouds, but after a few minutes the sun burst forth, and the breeze subsiding at the same time, permitted the spray to ascend perpendicularly. A host of pyramidal clouds rose majestically, one after another from the abyss at the bottom of the Fall; and each, when it had ascended a little above the edge of the cataract, displayed a beautiful rainbow, which in a few moments was gradually transferred into the bosom of the cloud that immediately succeeded. The spray of the Great Fall had extended itself through a wide space directly over me, and, receiving the full influence of the sun, exhibited a luminous and magnificent rainbow, which continued to overarch and irradiate the spot on which I stood, while I enthusiastically contemplated the indescribable scene.

After leaving the Table Rock, the traveller must proceed down the river nearly half a mile, where he will come to a small chasm in the bank, in which there is a spiral staircase inclosed in a wooden building. By descending the stair, which is seventy or eighty feet perpendicular height, he

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