[The Steine-Kill is one of the sparkling tributaries of our American Rhine, the Hudson, and signifies “Stony River.”] Our own bright “Steine-Kill!” once more, once more! Thy wavelets steal the glowing hues of Heaven, And now with stranger glory than before, The gold-encrimsoned clouds melts into even. One soft-veiled rose-cloud floateth slowly on, Mirrored in thy calm bosom; rainbow-dyes All radiant, vie with glowing hues like morn; While far amid the deep’ning west, arise Strange giant-forms, that seem to guard the skies. Ay, giant-clouds!—from out the vestibule Of Heaven’s vast, dark’ning dome, what mighty train Comes forth!—a cavalcade of kings—whose sceptered rule, The whole broad realm of Heaven! Lo, again Their host they marshal—where the God of Day Sinks, like a wearied conqueror, to his rest, They have usurped his throne; with proud array Of gold and purple canopy o’er thy breast— A gorgeous couch!—rest captive conqueror! The orient guards thy bright triumphal car. But, lo, another scene—a battle-plain— The deep-toned roar of Heaven’s artillery! ’Mid iron hail and lightning-flash, again The shattered hosts rush fiercely to the fray! ’Mid foaming steed, and flashing shield and spear, And waving oriflame, those warrior-clouds Surge onward like the sea!—a mighty bier Yawns to receive them—for the darkness shrouds Them, as a tomb, and solemn twilight’s reign Broodeth o’er Heaven’s ensanguined battle-plain. Thus, change the scenes of thy great drama, Life! Love, Hate, Pride—the fever-dreams Of restless energies, warring with the strife Of bigot Ignorance; while brightly gleams The radiant light of Hope! Ah! are not all These passions mirrored from our hearts, in those We love and influence?—ever may their thrall Be like the _secret fount_ the lap-wing knows,[3] E’er pure, and calm, and holy—as thy breast— Oh, Steine-Kill! whereon the twilight rests. ----- [3] It is known that the “hud-hud,” or lap-wing, possesses the instinct to discover subterranean springs. * * * * * A SONG. FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER. BY GIFTIE. Oft when the evening sun is low, Along the billowing sea Is heard the echoing sound of bells, Ringing harmoniously. Ringing the call to vesper prayer, With muffled tone and low, From the towers of that old “wonder-town,” Submerged so long ago.