White and silent shines the moonlight, And the earth, in slumber deep, Smiles, as of the silver splendor Conscious in her sleep! How the moonbeams dance and glimmer— Hunted by the summer breeze— On the bosom of the river, Through the branches of the trees! May this night of quiet beauty Be the symbol and the sign, Of the holy love that wraps us In its light divine! So shalt thou still reign forever, While the glow of life abides, As thou now dost, dearest—empress Of my heart’s deep tides! AUTUMN LINES. WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE BY J. R. THOMPSON. Gone is the golden October Down the swift current of time, Month by the poets called sober, Just for the sake of the rhyme. Tints of vermilion and yellow Margined the forest and stream; Poets then told us ’twas mellow, How inconsistent they seem! Now, while the mountain in shadow Dappled and hazy appears, While the late corn in the meadow, Culprit-like, loses its ears— Get some choice spirits together, Bring out the dogs and the guns, Follow the birds o’er the heather, Where the ’cold rivulet’ runs. Look for them under the cover, Just as the pole-star at sea Always is sought by the rover, Near where the pointers may be. Yet if your field-tramping brothers Should not be fellows of mark, Leave the young partridge for others, Only make sure of a lark. Thus shall the charms of the season Gently throw round you their spell, Thus enjoy nature in reason, If in the country you dwell. But if condemned as a denizen In a great town to reside, Take down a volume of Tennyson, Make him do service as guide; Borne upon poesy’s pinion, Rise the heights that he gains, Range over Fancy’s dominion, Walk hypothetical plains. Soon shall the wintry December Darken above us the sky— Winds their old custom remember All, in a spree, to get high; And, as they wail through the copses, Dirge-like and solemn to hear, Nature’s own grand Thanatopsis Sadly shall strike on the ear. But all impressions so murky Instantly banish like care, Turn to the ham and the turkey Christmas shall shortly prepare. None than yourself can be richer, Seated at night by the hearth, With an old friend and a pitcher Lending a share of the mirth. Then to the needy be given Aid from your generous boards, And to a bountiful Heaven Thanks for the wealth it affords. THE PUNISHMENT OF GINA MONTANI. From Colburn’s New Monthly Magazine. I.