such scenes, not gloomy walls, invite thee—nay ’tis not the voice of the Tempter—’tis not, as they will tell thee, the poisonous breath of the many-coloured serpent stealing o’er thy senses. Let bearded men, wrecked on their own fierce lawless passions, seek these dark cells, these painful vigils, these unmeaning mortifications. They are not for thee. The world awaits thy coming. The pawing steed, throwing the white froth flakes o’er his broad chest, impatiently awaits thee. Fly, dear lady, fly—the joyous, carrolling birds, the dew-spangled meadows, cry, Come. The green, green trees—the bubbling water-falls—the soft summer breezes—the rosy tinted East—the gorgeous drapery of the West—cry to thee, Come. The voice of thy lover, frantic at thy self-sacrifice—the voice of him who in the fragrant orange bower encircled thy slender waist, whilst, with heightened colour and down-cast eyes, thou listen’d to his rapid vows—the voice of him, who with thy glossy raven tresses floating on his shoulder, and thy warm, sweet breath, mingling with his, lavished soul, existence, all, on thee,—in agony cries, Dearest, dearest, come. Nay, nay, ’tis but for _thy_ happiness,—I leave thee—exclaim not—I am gone. CATARACTS OF NIAGARA. Now—on, on—over the Chute, and down the Rapid—leaping the Saults—through the rivers, over the islands—we glide—we glide—we rush—we fly. Ho! Ariel, beautiful spirit, riding on thy rainbow—shoot not thy silver arrows at us as we pass. Tricksy spirit—fare thee well—now far in the distance, fare—thee—well! Ha! ha!—Old frolic Puck—sweating, panting, holding thy lubbard sides—we race—we race—we pass thee too—in vain thou strugglest to o’ertake us. Farewell—farewell. Go pinch the housemaids—tickle with straws the snoring herdsmen—tumble about the dusty mows—sprinkle sweet hay before the ruminating cattle—clutch by the tail the cunning fox, as stealthily he crawls within the hen-roost—and anon rub thy hands in glee o’er the embers on the capacious kitchen hearth, and on all-fours cut antics with the glowering cat, as with bowed back and shining eyes she watches thee i’ th’ corner—peer into the kettles and into the jars—see whether the barm rises—whether the yeast doth work; till with clash—clatter—the metal lid slips from thy fingers on the hearth-stone, and villain-like, thou shoot’st up the chimney, with “Ho! ho! ho!” laughing at the sleepy yeoman, as half covered, with oaken cudgel grasped, shivering, he peers through the door-crack the cause o’ th’ uproar. Farewell, farewell, mirthful goblin—farewell, farewell. Ontario, we waft across thy surface. Queenstown, thy sanguinary heights, crowned with brave Briton’s monument, we pass, and now the rising mist-wreaths warn us of thy approach, Niagara. Huzza! huzza! now for a bath under the roaring Cataract. In what wild chaos of waters the clam’rous rapids, as if from the horizon, rush down upon us—jumping, leaping, boiling, in