Pure, calm, diffused, the twilight of the morn Is in the glen, among the dewy leaves. Its gentle radiance, more heavenly-born Than the half-loving sunbeam, never grieves A nook, unvisited. This Earth receives The light which makes no shade, as the caress Of God on his creation, and upheaves Her soft face, innocent with peace, to bless, Babe-like, his watchful eye with waking tenderness. A gate admits us to the Hill we seek; Through woods a track upon the turf we find; The trees are dripping dew, their tall stems creak And rub together when the morning wind Lightly caresses them. We pause to mind The note of one awakened bird, whose cry, Quaint and repeated, is not like its kind. Our ears are ignorant. Now up the high And mossy slope we climb, beneath an open sky. We reach the summit. Earth is in a dream Of misty seas, and islands strangely born— The unreal, from reality. The stream Of wraith-like sights which, ere he can be torn From peaceful sleep, delights the travel-worn At slumber’s painted gate, is not more wild Than the imagining of Earth when Morn Bids her awaken. So a dreaming child Looks through white angel wings, and sees all undefiled. The blessed dream-land fancy of the young, More truthful than the reasoning of age, Is like this vision of the morning, sprung Of earth and air. These lines upon the page Of Nature have life in them. They assuage The fevers of the world, they are the dew Of calm,—and God is calm. How mortals wage Their wars of weakness Light reveals to view; Reason fights through the false, but Fancy feels the true. AN EXCELLENT OPPORTUNITY. In one of the dirtiest and most gloomy streets leading to the Rue Saint Denis, in Paris, there stands a tall and ancient house, the lower portion of which is a large mercer’s shop. This establishment is held to be one of the very best in the neighbourhood, and has for many years belonged to an individual on whom we will bestow the name of Ramin.