The frost upon the window pane Makes crystal pictures in the night; The Earth, old mother, wears again Her garment of the shining white. We fly across the frozen snow With bounding blood that will not pause. Oh Heaven! we are far below-- Oh Earth! above thee, with thy laws. The happy horses toss their bells; The sleigh goes on into the far And far away. (A whisper tells Of flight to where the angels are.) Glide forward. As a star that slips Through space, we know a large desire; And though our steeds are urged by whips, We haste as they were urged by fire. Dash forward, Let us know no rest-- But on, and on, and ever on, Until the palace of the West We enter, with the sinking sun. And forward still, until the East Releases the aspiring day; And forward till the hours have ceased, Oh Earth! now art thou far away. ...*...*...*...* The mountains truly have a glorious roughness; I do not hear the pyramids are smooth; The ocean grandly foams into abruptness; Does God peal thunder down a well-oiled groove? Thou, with a poet's roughness, friend, would'st quarrel; Staggering o'er the ridges of ploughed speech, You move uneasily. Well, the apparel Of verse is trivial. Try the sense to reach. THE COUNT MONTE-LEONE: OR, THE SPY IN SOCIETY.[7] TRANSLATED FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE FROM THE FRENCH OF H. DE ST. GEORGES. XX.--THE GOOD AND THE BAD ANGEL.