Green, gold, and red are floating all around me;
They are the flowers the angel scattereth.
Shall I have also wings whilst life has bound me?
Or, mother, are they given alone in death?

Why dost thou clasp me as if I were going?

Why dost thou press thy cheek thus unto mine?
Thy cheek is hot, and yet thy tears are flowing;
I will, dear mother, will be always thine!
Do not thus sigh-it marreth my reposing;
And if thou weep, then I must weep with thee!
O, I am tired-my weary eyes are closing;

Look, mother, look! the angel kisseth me!

THE APOLLO BELVIDERE.-HENRY THEODORE TUCKERMAN.

It was a day of festival in Rome,

And to the splendid temple of her saint,

Many a brilliant equipage swept on;

Brave cavaliers reined their impetuous steeds,

While dark-robed priests and bright-eyed peasants strolled,

Through groups of citizens in gay attire.

The suppliant moan of the blind mendicant,

Blent with the huckster's cry, the urchin's shout,

The clash of harness, and the festive cheer.

Beneath the colonnade ranged the Swiss guards,
With polished halberds-an anomaly,
Of mountain lineage, and yet hirelings!
In the midst rose the majestic obelisk;
Quarried in Egypt, centuries by-gone;
And, on either side, gushed up refreshingly
The lofty fountains, flashing in the sun,
And breathing, o'er the din, a whisper soft,
Yet finely musical as childhood's laugh.
Here a stranger stood in mute observance;
There an artist leaned, and pleased his eye
With all the features of the shifting scene,
Striving to catch its varying light and shade-
The mingled tints of brilliancy and gloom.
Through the dense crowd a lovely maiden pressed
With a calm brow, an eagerness of air,

And an eye exultant with high purpose.
The idle courtier checked his ready jest,

And backward stepped in reverence, as she passed;
The friar turned and blessed her fervently,
Reading the joy in her deep look of love,
That visits pilgrims when their shrine is won.
To the rich chambers of the Vatican

She hurried thoughtfully, nor turned to muse
Upon the many glories clustered there.
There are rooms whose walls are radiant still
With the creations of the early dead-
Raphael, the gifted and the beautiful;
Fit places for those sweet imaginings
And spirit-stirring dreams.

She entered not.

Gems of rare hues and cunning workmanship,
Ancient sarcophagi, heroic forms,

Busts of the mighty conquerors of time,

Stirred not a pulse in that fond maiden's heart;
She staid not to peruse the classic face
Of young Augustus, nor lingered to discern
Benignity in Trajan's countenance;

But sped, with fawn-like and familiar step,
On to the threshold of a cabinet;

And then her eye grew brighter, and a flush
Suffused her cheek, as, awe-subdued, she paused,
And, throwing back the ringlets from her brow,
With a light bound and rapturous murmur, stood
Before the statue of the Grecian god:

"They tell me thou art stone,

Stern, passionless, and chill,

Dead to the glow of noble thought,
And feeling's holy thrill;

They deem thee but a marble god,

The paragon of art,

A thing to charm the sage's eye,
But not to win the heart.

"Vain as their own light vows,

And soulless as their gaze,

The thought of quenching my deep love
By such ignoble praise!

I know that through thy parted lips
Language disdains to roll,
While on them rest so gloriously
The beamings of the soul.

"I dreamed, but yesternight,
That, gazing, e'en as now,
Rapt in a wild, admiring joy,
On thy majestic brow-

That thy strong arm was round me flung,
And drew me to thy side,

While thy proud lip uncurled in love,

And hailed me as a bride.

"And then, methought we sped,
Like thine own arrow, high,

Through fields of azure, orbs of light,

Amid the boundless sky:

Our way seemed walled with radiant gems,
As fell the starry gleams,

And the floating isles of pearly drops
Gave back their silver beams.

"Sphere-music, too, stole by

In the fragrant zephyr's play,

And the hum of worlds boomed solemnly Across our trackless way:

Upon my cheek the wanton breeze

Thy glowing tresses flung;

Like loving tendrils, round my neck,
A golden band they clung.

แ

Methought thou didst impart
The mysteries of earth,

And whisper lovingly the tale

Of thy celestial birth;

O'er Poetry's sublimest heights
Exultingly we trod;

Thy words were music-uttering
The genius of a god!

"Proud one! 'twas but a dream;
For here again thou art,
Thy marble bosom heeding not
My passion stricken heart.

O, turn that rapturous look on me,
And heave a single sigh-

Give but a glance, breathe but a tone,
One word were ecstasy!

"Still mute? Then must I yield;

This fire will scathe my breast;

This weary heart will throb itself
To an eternal rest.

Yet still my soul claims fellowship
With the exalted grace,

The bright and thrilling earnestness,
The godlike in thy face.

"Thou wilt relent at last,

And turn thy love-lit eye
In pity on me, noble one!
To bless me ere I die.

And now, farewell, my vine-clad home,
Farewell, immortal youth!

Let me behold thee when Love calls
The martyr to her truth!"

A VISION OF THE VATICAN.-FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE.

In the great palace halls, where dwell the gods
I heard a voice filling the vaulted roof;
The heart that uttered it seem'd sorrow proof,
And, clarion-like, it might have made the clods
Of the dead valley start to sudden life,
With such a vigor and a joy 'twas rife.

And, coming towards me, lo! a woman past,
Her face was shining as the morning bright,
And her feet fell in steps so strong and light,
I scarce could tell if she trode slow or fast:
She seem'd instinct with beauty and with power,
And what she sang dwells with me to this hour.

66

Transfigur'd from the gods' abode I come,

I have been tarrying in their awful home;
Stand from my path, and give me passage free,
For yet I breathe of their divinity.

Jove have I knelt to, solemn and serene,

And stately Herè, heaven's transcendant queen;
Apollo's light is on my brow, and fleet,
As silver-sandall'd Dian's are my feet;
Graciously smiling, heavenly Aphrodite
Hath filled my senses with a vague delight;
And Pallas, steadfastly beholding me,
Hath sent me forth in wisdom to be free."

When at the portal, smiling she did turn,

And, looking back thro' the vast halls profound, Re-echoing with her song's triumphant sound, She bow'd her head, and said, "I shall return!" Then raised her face, all radiant with delight, And vanished, like a vision, from my sight.

HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS.-N. P. WILLIS.

The morning broke. Light stole upon the clouds
With a strange beauty. Earth received again
Its garment of a thousand dyes; and leaves,
And delicate blossoms, and the painted flowers,
And everything that bendeth to the dew,
And stirreth with the daylight, lifted up
Its beauty to the breath of that sweet morn.

its walls lined with the choicest pictures of Raphael, and every spare nook filled with statues of the most exquisite workmanship, and that I were to learn that neither man, woman, nor child ever cast an eye at these miracles of art, how should I feel their privation; how should I want to open their eyes, and to help them to comprehend and feel the loveliness and grandeur which in vain courted their notice! But every husbandman is living in sight of the works of a diviner Artist; and how much would his existence be elevated, could he see the glory which shines forth in their forms, hues, proportions, and moral expression! I have spoken only of the beauty of nature, but how much of this mysterious charm is found in the elegant arts, and especially in literature? The best books have most beauty. The greatest truths are wronged if not linked with beauty, and they win their way most surely and deeply into the soul when arrayed in this their natural and fit attire. Now, no man receives the true culture of a man, in whom the sensibility to the beautiful is not cherished; and I know of no condition in life from which it should be excluded. Of all luxuries this is the cheapest and most at hand; and it seems to me to be most important to those conditions, where coarse labor tends to give a grossness to the mind. From the diffusion of the sense of beauty in ancient Greece, and of the taste for music in modern Germany, we learn that the people at large may partake of refined gratifications, which have hitherto been thought to be necessarily restricted to a few.

THE POET OF THE FUTURE.-ALEXANDER SMITH

I have a strain of a departed bard;
One who was born too late into this world.
A mighty day was past, and he saw nought
But ebbing sunset and the rising stars-
Still o'er him rose those melancholy stars!
Unknown his childhood, save that he was born
'Mong woodland waters full of silver breaks;
That he grew up 'mong primroses moon-pale
In the hearts of purple hills; that he o'er-ran
Green meadows golden in the level sun,

A bright-haired child; and that, when these he left
To dwell within a monstrous city's heart,

The trees were gazing up into the sky,