This anecdote, though singularly French, who are noted for irreligion, does not strike me as betraying any lack of reverence. Could not the poor _ouvrier_ in his ignorance really have presumed the rainbow to be a providential token? Instances of greater blindness might be recounted, which have happened at our own doors. Who does not know the stories of Millerite fanaticism? Are not the impostures of Matthias too recent not to be remembered in detail? The miracles which they pretended, and which were not too monstrous for the capacious maw of respectable credulity, were much more marvelous than the tricolored flag of the poor Paris laborer. V.—TO AN OLD FLAME. _Written on one of the bitterest days of Winter._ Ah, Mary, thou art far away, And never dost thou think of me, But unto thee my visions fly Like birds across the sea. I loved thee once with such a love As manhood only knows and feels, Less shown by actions and by words Than what the eye reveals. Within the warm and sunny South Thy form is folded like a rose, While I, in Northern realms afar, Am wrapt in wintry snows. Perhaps a husband’s arms enclose The treasure I’d have died to win, So that desire for thy sweet face Is very like a sin. But I’ll not think it—let me dream— Since dreams alone such bliss bestow— That, ere we meet in climes above, We yet may meet below. And I again may feel a thrill Of rapture as I sit and gaze Into thine eye’s delicious depth Till all my heart’s ablaze. And I can hear thy tuneful voice, With melody almost divine, Sing the sweet songs I joyed to hear In days of auld lang syne. But all in vain I strike my lyre, In vain my burning thoughts unfold, For, though my heart is warm with love, My hands are numb with cold. VI.—SHIPWRECK.