[It is related of Signora Angelica Kauffman, the celebrated Italian, that when a youthful maiden, she was one evening by the bank of her native stream, a short distance from Mount Rosa, near the entrance of a forest, when, charmed with the beauty of the sunset, she fell into a reverie, during which a vision passed before her, which led her to form the resolution—which she patiently kept—of being a painter. She afterward obtained the prize from the Royal Academy at London, England, for her painting of the Weeping Magdalen. _See Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XXX._] May, with thousand buds of beauty Gemmeth o’er the valley’s breast, Once again with chainless freedom Are the Alpine streamlets blest; Down the ancient, snow-clad mountains, In their joy they leap and spring, All entrancing with the music Of the merry lay they sing. And the haughty, towering glaciers Gazing down so stern and wild, Yield them to the spring-time influence, And diffuse a radiance mild— For the glowing sunset lingers On those crystal turrets high, Long beyond the sun’s departure From the clear and cloudless sky. Downward are the rays reflected To each ancient forest-tree, Standing in its solemn grandeur, Monarch of a century; Birds their evening hymns are singing, And the peasant homeward hies— ’Tis the welcome hour of vespers And from every heart they rise. All, save one—her soul enraptured With the splendor of the scene, Listlessly reclines she—dreaming— On the streamlet’s bank of green; Thoughts of power her spirit burden Clamorous for a garb of words, But they strive in vain for freedom, Speech no worthy aid affords. Longing for the tongue of Poet, For his language bold and grand— Or for that high power majestic, With which oft a master-hand On the vague and empty canvas, Into being life-like calls Images first etched by Fancy, On the mind’s eternal walls. Dreaming on of Fame and Beauty, Gazing still upon the sky, Twilight gathers over nature, Darkness draws unheeded nigh. There before her, in the forest, Stand the oaks in majesty— Yet before her they are changing To a statued gallery! And beneath each marble statue, There are carved upon the base, Names that Art hath made immortal, Names the laurel deigned to grace! But upon one gray pedestal, Standing statueless—alone— She deciphers with emotion One familiar name—_her own!_ Filled with solemn awe she lifteth To the heavens her tearful eyes, And above that lone pedestal Sees a glorious star arise! For herself prepared and ready, (She can read the mystery,) ’Tis a niche in Fame’s high temple, ’Tis her star of destiny.