The next day some peasants discovered the body of a man frozen to death, lying on a heap of snow,—it was that of the wretched incendiary. Providence, mindful of his long, of his cruel imprisonment and sufferings, spared him the anguish of knowing that the mistress of the palace he had destroyed, and who perished in the flames, was his own beloved daughter—the Serf of Pobreze! A STROLL BY STARLIGHT. We left the Village. On the beaten road Our steps and voices were the only sound. The lady Moon was not yet come abroad,— Our coyly-veiled companion. We found A footway through the corn; upon the ground The crake among the holms was occupied; Rapid of movement, from all points around Came his rough note whose music is supplied By iteration while all sounds are hushed beside. The stars were out, the sky was full of them, Dotted with worlds. The land was all asleep. And, like its gentle breath, from stem to stem Through the dry corn a murmur there would creep, Murmur of music: as when in the deep Of the sun-pierced Ægean, with turned ear, The Nereids might have heard its waters leap And kiss the dimpled islands, thus, less near, Fainter, more like a thought, did to our hearts appear, The midnight melody. Our way then led Where myriad blades of grass were drinking dew; Thirsty, to God they looked, by God were fed, Whose cloudless heaven could their life renew. A copse beside us on the starry blue Cut its hard outline. Through the leaves a fire Shone with enlarging brilliance; red of hue The large moon rose,—did to a throne aspire Of dizzy height, and paled in winning her desire. A change of level, and another scene; Life, light, and noise. The roaring furnace-blast, Flame-pointed cones and fields of blighted green! The vivid fires, dreaming they have surpassed The stars in brightness, furiously cast Upward their wild strength to possess the sky; Break into evanescent stars at last,— Glitter and fall as fountains. Thus men try, And thus men try in vain, false gods to deify. The roar and flame diminish. Busy light Streams from the casting-house. The liquid ore Through arch and lancet window, dazzling Night, Flows in rich rills upon the sanded floor. Steropes, Arges, Brontes, from the shore Of Acheron returned, seem glowing here; Such form the phantom of Hephæstus wore, Illumined by his forge. Each feature clear, Men glorified by fire seem demon-births of fear.