* * * * * CHIMES OF ANTWERP. One, two, and three, with measured stroke and numbers on they go, For Ghentish Charles ’twas thus they woke, for blood-stained Alva so, And still from out their airy cage of wreathed and trelliced stone, They tell us of our pilgrimage another hour has flown. They float above the Plâce de Mer, and o’er thy roofs and towers, Fair Antwerp, with thy solemn air and antique Flemish bowers; And sweet and stately is the sound, and melancholy too, As it should be where Memory the fabler dwells with you. One, two, and three, with measured strokes and numbers they awake! ’Twas thus on Rubens’ ear at eve their sounds were wont to break; And still o’er his best monument, with monumental tone, They tell us of our pilgrimage another hour has flown. J. H. * * * * * A WINTER SCENE. BY LYDIA JANE PIERSON. Oh how magnificent. How beautiful The old grey wood appears. Each sturdy tree Crown’d with a glorious diamond diadem Of wreathen plumes and garlands. Every bush And slender sapling, bending with the weight Of its bright ornaments, seems to the view Like youthful genius shrinking and o’erwhelm’d With the chill weight of the cold world’s applause. The sun is rising now, and every spray, And feathery evergreen, grows radiant With more than earthly glory. One might deem Each twig a chain of gold profusely set With ruby, emerald, and amethyst, Sapphire and living diamond, splendid all And dazzling past description. Yet there lives No balm, no melody of loving birds Amongst the icy branches; grandeur reigns And frigid beauty, without life or joy. No gentle breezes woo the branches now, To bend and kiss their sweetly sighing lips, And fling a cloud of incense, and bright flow’rs Upon their lingering pinions. No young fruits Lie in their curtain’d cradles, rocking soft To the glad lullaby which smiling Hope Sings round the fragrant clusters. No young birds Lie chirping in their nests amongst green leaves. No passing streamlet lingers in the bow’rs, Forgetting, for a while, its morning hymn, To touch the rich lip of the fragile flower That lives upon its love one summer day, Then lays the dying head so gently down Upon its bosom, while the trembling depth Reflects with sympathy the blighted gem, And murmurs promise of another life, And blest re-union at return of spring. No young fawns gambol through the silent wood, In the delight of life’s first consciousness Of freedom, strength, and beauty. No fair child Crushes the sweet buds with its little feet, While bounding after the bright butterfly