Calm is thy being as a lake Nestled within a quiet hill, When clouds are not, and winds are still, So peaceful calm, that it doth take All images upon its breast, Yet change not in its queenly rest, Reflecting back the bended skies Till you half doubt where Heaven lies. Deep thy nature is, and still, How dark and deep! and yet so clear Its inmost depths seem near; Not moulding all things to its will, Moulding its will to all, Ruling them with unfelt thrall. So gently flows thy life along It makes e’en discord musical, So that nought can pass thee by But turns to wond’rous melody, Like a full, clear, ringing song. Sweet the music of its flow, As of a river in a dream, A river in a sunny land, A deep and solemn stream Moving over silver sand, Majestical and slow. I sometimes think that thou wert given To be a bright interpreter Of the pure mysteries of Heaven, And cannot bear To think Death’s icy hand should stir One ringlet of thy hair; But thou must die like us,— Yet not like us,—for can it be That one so bright and glorious Should sink into the dust as we, Who could but wonder at thy purity? Not oft I dwell in thoughts of thine, My earnest-souled Callirhöe; And yet thy life is part of mine. What should I love in place of thee? Sweet is thy voice, as that of streams To me, or as a living sound To one who starts from fev’rous sleep, Scared by the shapes of ghastly dreams, And on the darkness stareth round, Fancying dim terrors in the gloomy deep. Then if it must be so, That thou from us shalt go, Linger yet a little while; Oh! let me once more feel thy grace, Oh! let me once more drink thy smile! I am as nothing if thy face Is turned from me! But if it needs must be, That I must part from thee, That the silver cord be riven That holds thee down from Heaven, Not yet, not yet, Callirhöe, Unfold thine angel wings to flee, Oh! no, not yet, Callirhöe! Cambridge, Mass., 1841. * * * * * THE CONFESSIONS OF A MISER. BY J. ROSS BROWNE. Continued from Page 87. Part II. That irrevocable passion which sprung up between Marco Da Vinci and Valeria, during the hours of mutual communion which they enjoyed while preparations were in progress for the annual exhibition at the Academy of Arts, was not destined to wither in its infancy.