An autumnal evening had closed a day of pastoral pleasure: it was the birthday of Blanche, and it had been celebrated by her young playmates, with such honors as their limited means would allow. The flowers and the fruits which grew in their own gardens were all the offerings or ornaments they had to spread before the child of their benefactor; but with these they formed new bowers, and loaded mossy tables; with these they decorated themselves, and beneath the glorious vault of Heaven presented a scene more picturesquely beautiful than any which could be found under the domes of man. Tired with so many hours festivity, Kara Aziek threw herself on a couch to enjoy the fresh air, which blowing through pendent branches of passion-flower and clematis, that curtained an open porch, came sweet as cooling: the risen moon shone full upon her lovely figure, illuminating those eloquent eyes which were fixed on their dearest object. Blanche had fallen asleep: her delicate little form partly rested on the ground, partly leaned on the body of Barémel, who having made no inconsiderable appearance in the fairy revels, was like his mistress profusely adorned with flowers, and full as weary. Everything within, was still; everything without, was tranquil. Nothing was heard, save the monotonous and plaintive hum of swarms of Brazilian bats, which instead of disturbing, induced repose. Sebastian sat by the couch of Kara Aziek, wrapt in a tender trance of fond contemplation; his child and his wife were equally the objects of that sweet delight which gently warmed his heart; and the faithful Barémel shared the admiration.--A book was in his hand; he had taken it up to read to Kara Aziek: she reminded him of it, and opening the volume, he read with a low, gentle voice, the following poem. THE INDIAN ISLAND. The sunbeams gild the waters green That float round Borneo’s palmy shore, And angel-forms are dimly seen Gliding the glassy ocean o’er. Moveless one little bark remains, That lately skimm’d the liquid way; Silence thro’ all her chambers reigns, And no one chides her short delay: Above, below, entrancing sounds Now breathe, now ring, now sudden cease; Then balmy mist the ship surrounds, While all is stillness, sweetness, peace! Again the airy voices swell! Again the light blast sweeps the sea! Again the balmy vapours dwell On every wave, and every tree! Swift shoots the bark, (unfetter’d now,) Tho’ smooth the tide and calm the air; Its purple sail and gilded prow, Some power unseen, must onward bear. Ah who is she, that lonely lies Beneath the broad o’er-arching sail, With panting breast and closing eyes, With with’ring wreath, and floating veil? Loose o’er her neck the golden hair Like lucid moonshine softly streams; Her glowing cheek, (etherial fair!) Thro’ tears of tender transport beams: