How sweetly the river Reflected the ray Of moon through the willows Or sun o'er the hill: Does the moonbeam there quiver, The sunset there play, Upon its gay billows As splendidly still? My spirit is weary-- An exile I grieve, When morn's early voices A glad song proclaim, And the faint Miserere Of nature at eve, To me but rejoices To murmer thy name. Yet Hope, reappearing, A vision unfolds, Of rapture together In joy's happy reign, When love all endearing The full eye beholds, We'll walk o'er the heather At sunset again. RICHMOND, Va. DRAMATIC FRAGMENTS. WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE, BY R. H. STODDARD. THE GAME OF CHESS. We played at chess, Bianca and myself, One afternoon, but neither won the game, Both absent-minded, thinking of our hearts Moving the ivory pawns from black to white, Shifted to little purpose round the board; Sometimes we quite forgot it in a sigh And then remembered it, and moved again; Looking the while along the slopes beyond, Barred by blue peaks, the fountain, and the grove Where lovers sat in shadow, back again, With sideway glances in each other's eyes; Unknowingly I made a lucky move, Whereby I checked my mate, and gained a queen; My couch drew nearer hers, I took her hand-- A soft white hand that gave itself away-- Told o'er the simple story of my love, In simplest phrases which are always best, And prayed her if she loved me in return-- A fabled doubt--to give her heart to me; And then, and there, above that game of chess, Not finished yet, in maiden trustfulness, She gave me, what I knew was mine, her heart! FROM A PLAY. Alas! I think of you the live-long day, Plying my needle by the little stand, And wish that we had never, never met, Or I were dead, or you were married off, Though that would kill me; I lay down my work, And take the lute you gave me, but the strings Have grown so tuneless that I cannot play; I sing the favorite airs we used to sing, The sweet old tunes we love, and weep aloud! I sought forgetfulness, and tried to-day To read a chapter in the Holy Book; I could not see a line, I only read The solemn sonnets that you sent to me: Nor can I pray as I was wont to do, For you come in between me and the Lord, And when I strive to lift my soul above, My wits are wandering, and I sob your name! And nights, when I am lying on my bed, (I hope such thoughts are not unmaidenly,) I think of you, and fall asleep, and dream I am your own, your wedded, happy wife,-- But that can never, never be on earth! THE COUNTESS IDA HAHN-HAHN.