The cricket has hushed Now his chirp so sweet. Rare perfume has gushed From the new-cut wheat; The lily has bent Down its head in sleep, Its odor is lent To the winds to keep. Mortals are slumb’ring, Long hours fly past, Old Time is numb’ring The seconds so fast, Fears him no mortal, For slumber has tight Closed the portal Of thought—it is Night. * * * * * PASSAGES OF LIFE IN EUROPE. BY BAYARD TAYLOR. NO. II.—A LONELY WEEK. One of the loneliest hours I felt in two years of absence from my country, was on an afternoon in April, after leaving the gate of Cassel, in Northern Germany. There I had parted from Carl K——, a young student, whom I had met for the first time two days before, on entering the city. We met, strangers though we were, and ignorant of each other’s name or condition, like old acquaintances who had been long separated; an invisible link seemed at once to attach us in friendship and confidence. He was a boy of seventeen, but already a poet, possessing a nature full of enthusiasm and the sorrowful inspiration of song. His heart beat with all true and tender impulses, and in its yet unfathomed depths there was a capacity for boundless passion. In those two days we were constantly together; we climbed the slopes of the Wilhelmshöhe, fragrant with early cowslips; we wandered among the giant ruins of the Katzenberg; we sat in the rich library, poring over the old illuminated pages of the Song of Hildebrand. When the time of parting came, it was a struggle for both of us, and as we gave the last warm pressure of hands at the gate of Cassel, his dark, mournful eyes were full of tears, and I turned away with a mist gathering over my own. I climbed the long hill which was to shut out all sight of the valley, with a feeling amounting to bitterness, heightened by the languid and feverish sensations of approaching illness.