The next day he came again; but he learned that a gensd'arme had taken M. Cazotte to the Municipality. M. D... went to Petion; arrived at the mayoralty, he heard that his friend had just been taken to prison; he hurried thither; but he was informed that he could not speak to him, he would be tried before the revolutionary tribunal. Soon after this, he heard that his friend had been condemned and executed. GREENWOOD. WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE. BY MAUNSELL B. FIELD. I would that I were dreaming, Where lovely flowers are gleaming, And the tall green grass is streaming O'er the gone--for ever gone. MOTHERWELL. The evening glories of a summer sky Brimming the heart with yearnings to be blest; The wood-bird's wailing as he soars on high Winging his weary way to distant nest; The murmuring billows as they kiss the strand, Bearing dim memories of stranger land; The sad mysterious voices of the night, Bathing the soul in reverie and love; The low wind, whispering of its former might To the tall trees that sigh the hills above, Like angel-tones that roll from sphere to sphere And dimly echo to the faithful ear; The flitting shadows glancing o'er the sail Of some proud ship that's dreaming on the sea; The lighthouse fires that fitful glow and pale; The far-off strains of martial minstrelsy; Wechawken's hoary head o'er hill and dell, Gloomy and proud, a giant sentinel; Such the soft charms, thou Paradise of Death! My languid spirit hath erewhile confest, When wearied with the city's tainted breath, Fever'd and faint I've sought thy shades of rest, Where all combines in heaven, and earth, and sea, To image life, death, immortality!-- Here where the dusky savage twanged his bow In the old time at startled doe or fawn, Raised the shrill war-whoop at the approach of foe, His wild eye flashing with revenge and scorn; Here where the Indian maiden told her love To the soft sighing spirits of the grove. Here, where the bloody fiend of frantic war Flapped its red wings o'er hill-top and o'er plain-- Where the sharp musket ring, and cannon roar, Crashed o'er the valley, thundered o'er the main, No sound is heard, save the sweet symphony Of Nature's all-pervading harmony. Here the pale willow, drooping o'er the wave, Dips its long tresses in the silvery flood; Here the blue violet, blooming o'er the grave, Distils its fragrance to the enamored wood, While the complaining turtle's mournful woe Steals on the ear in murmurs soft and low. Here its cold shaft the polished marble rears; Here, eloquent of grief, the sculptured urn Bares its white bosom to the dewy tears, Dropt pure from heaven, far purer to return! Here the grim granite's sempeternal pile In monumental grandeur stands the while.