and Diana, who has ascended high in heaven, without our having once observed the divinity, bends her silver bow among the rejoicing stars, while the lake, like another sky, seems to contain its own luminaries, a different division of the constellated night! 'Tis merry Windermere no more. Yet we must not call her melancholy--though somewhat sad she seems, and pensive, as if the stillness of universal nature did touch her heart. How serene all the lights--how peaceful all the shadows! Steadfast alike--as if they would brood for ever--yet transient as all loveliness--and at the mercy of every cloud. In some places, the lake has disappeared--in others, the moonlight is almost like sunshine--only silver instead of gold. Here spots of quiet light--there lines of trembling lustre--and there a flood of radiance checkered by the images of trees. Lo! the Isle called Beautiful has now gathered upon its central grove all the radiance issuing from that celestial Urn; and almost in another moment it seems blended with the dim mass of mainland, and blackness enshrouds the woods. Still as seems the night to unobservant eyes, it is fluctuating in its expression as the face of a sleeper overspread with pleasant but disturbing dreams. Never for any two successive moments is the aspect of the night the same--each smile has its own meaning, its own character; and Light is felt to be like Music, to have a melody and a harmony of its own--so mysteriously allied are the powers and provinces of eye and ear, and by such a kindred and congenial agency do they administer to the workings of the spirit.