Ah! it is a witching hour—most sweet, most touching and beautiful. However, we cannot stay here all night, even in the midst of moonlight fragrance, and music. So we all quit our seats, unwillingly, however, and move to the edge of the water. The scow receives us, with the exception of our two singers, who, with their ladies, embark in the skiff. We leave the whispering ripples—break through the net of lilies, making the yellow globes all round palpitate up and down like living objects trying to escape—and launch, straight as the sideways spasms of our swinish craft will allow, into the moon-lit middle of the lake. The skiff is performing numerous antics, as if in derision of our slow progress, crossing and re-crossing the spangled pathway of light, with an effect picturesque and spectre-like. The boat—each figure in its most minute outline, hat, profile, limbs, and all—the oars—even the row-locks—are drawn with a spider-web accuracy upon the rich, bright back-ground in the passages across, seen, however, only for a moment—quick—startling—as if lightning had flashed over, and then all relapsing into the usual moonlight indistinctness. It is something, also, like the opening and shutting of the fire-fly’s lamp, this exhibition of the party, as it were, by flashes. But, hark! subsiding into quiet, and keeping but a little distance now from our slow, laboring bark, the skiff sends forth upon the night a strain of richest harmony. Lavigne and Murray blend their voices primo and secundo; and as we all glide slowly and sweetly toward the shore whence leads the way to home, to the air of “Come rest in this bosom;” this is the song they sing:— Oh! what are Earth’s pleasures and glories to me, Compared with the bliss that I know when with thee; I grieve when thou grievest—feel mirthful when gay, And happy when near thee, and sad when away. The sunshine is darkened when missing thy smile, There’s naught then my sorrow and care can beguile; My path seems deserted, Hope’s pinions are furled, For thou art my sunshine, my hope, and my world. I’ve gazed with delight on thy beautiful eyes, Till words were denied me—I breathed naught but sighs; I’ve watched thy sweet motions so graceful and light, Till my heart overflowed with pure joy at the sight. I would turn from the song of an angel to hear Thy voice of soft silver fall sweet on my ear; And, oh! in despair’s bitter anguish and gloom, I would turn e’en from life, for thy rest in the tomb. * * * * * A BACCHIC ODE. BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR. Wine! bring wine! Let the crystal beaker flame and shine, Brimming o’er with the draught divine! The crimson glow Of the lifted cup on my forehead throw, Like the sunset’s flush on a field of snow!