The rich variety of wood; the still, clear, limpid water; the hill and vale, in some parts dark and wild, in others light and soft, ever and anon relieving the eye by some new variety; but above all, the pleasant association that this vale, however dark and deep its recesses, harbors not a venomous serpent or reptile—no, not even the buzz of the mosquito is heard—made it unlike all others. We rode three miles, scarcely uttering a syllable all the while; a holy repose seemed to rest on this hallowed spot, as when it first bloomed under the hand of its Maker, and imagination was prompted to say, as no serpent has ever coiled here, the contaminating touch of sin has not left its impress. “Never did I leave a spot more reluctantly; it was a night scene which never has faded from my eye, and I hope never will. ‘O! the last rays of feeling and life must depart, Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.’ In the deep silence, the voice of God and the soft whisper of angels seemed to be there. These voices said kindly, ‘There is mercy yet for poor erring man.’ It appeared like the bow of the covenant, telling us to look and remember that though this world has been cursed by sin, yet a new heaven and earth are promised, of which this is a shadowy resemblance. “The borders of this valley are interspersed with gentlemen’s seats, and here and there dotted with the white-washed cottages of the peasants; and the rich cluster of foliage upon the hill sides, upon bush and tree, almost persuade you that the dew of Hermon has fallen upon them. Stranger, when you visit Ireland, visit the Vale of Avoca. If you love God, here you will see him in a picture that must be read; if your stay be limited, waste it not in decyphering a time-defaced stone, telling the bloody deeds of some ancient warrior, or the austerity of some long-lived ascetic; but linger in this spot; stop at the neat little hotel, erected on purpose for the accommodation of the stranger; and morning, noon, and night explore its never-dying beauties of light and shade. Three times did I go through, and when I turned away at last, I felt that ‘I could stay there forever to wander and weep.’” T. S. A. * * * * * THE LONE GRAVE-YARD. BY HON. J. LEANDER STARR. On Nyack’s shore the mighty Hudson flows, And on its banks the weeping willow grows; A wood-embowered spot thus shaded o’er, Lies half-concealed, sloping toward the shore. Beneath the willows which are growing there, Repose the forms of those once young and fair; The aged, too, here rest in mystic sleep, And here the widow often comes to weep.