“For like fair Eden’s early flowers, Thy groves are in perpetual bloom, And Love’s own wing fans the bright bowers Of orange, bergamot and broom. O’er all this region of delight Spring reigns like one unending day, No storms its opening blossoms blight, Nor shades on its pure waters play. “And when the orb of day hath gone Down o’er Morena’s dusky height, How beautiful the stars come on, The blue ethereal arch of night. Ah this fair earth hath many a scene By pure and genial breezes fanned, Yet boasts no realm cloudless, serene, Like my own Andalusian land. “But dull to me the fairest clime, Cheerless its landscapes to my view, Unless another’s eye with mine, Can gaze upon its beauty too; And vain to me the rich perfume Floating on all the ambient air, From Seville’s gardens in their bloom, Unless a voice I love is there. “Were India’s realm before me laid, I’d give it all might I recline My saddened brow, my weary head, Carlos, on that dear heart of thine— And hear thy soft, low tones again Fall like sweet music on my ear, With strange bland influence to sustain My timid heart, my spirit cheer.” The Spanish maiden ceased her lay, And slowly from my vision past, Like some sweet dream in summer’s day, Too bright and beautiful to last— Yet oft methinks when moonlight clear Falleth on stream, and tower, and tree, Again that soft low voice I hear Murmuring its plaintive melody. * * * * * SKETCHES OF LIFE IN OUR VILLAGE. NO. II.—THE LAST SACRAMENT. BY GIFTIE. Even from his fairy-like and laughing boyhood, George Atherton had been a dreamer. His soul seemed like a harp whose chords were tuned in heaven, and from which the rough winds of earth could draw forth at best but a sad and broken melody. The spirit of the Beautiful was given him at his birth, to be his constant companion and unfailing friend. It walked with him in his solitary rambles, it talked with him in his lonely hours, it filled his dreams with high thoughts and splendid imaginings. It led him to the solitude of nature, and opened his eyes to behold the beauties of this glorious creation, which even in rains bears the stamp of the Divinity. And there, as his mind gradually expanded, Religion came to him in the stillness of life’s morning, and taught his fresh and unworn spirit of the Highest and Holiest, by whom are all things, and in whom all exist. To his child-like faith the Deity was not a far off and incomprehensible mystery, but an ever present all pervading spirit. In the thousand voices that resound through this wide spread universe, he heard an undertone—a low solemn voice, that said—“be not afraid—it is I.”