'Napoleoni primo Francorum Imperatori Semper Augusti Republica Valesianæ Restaurotori Semper Optimo Ægyptiano Vis Italico, Semper Invicto in Monte Iovis et Sempronii Semper Memorando Republica Valesia Grata, II. Dec. Anni MDCCCIV.' We were nearly all early to bed, and those who lingered, were packed off by the monks at ten, according to rule. We were roused before sunrise by the lusty ringing of the chapel bell for matins, which were zealously kept up for two or three hours; but I was heretic enough to abscond, for the purpose of climbing the peak behind the convent, from which I could look down on the side of the mountain toward Italy: 'Italia! too, Italia! looking on thee, Full flashes on the soul the light of ages, Since the fierce Carthaginian almost won thee, To the last halo of the chiefs and sages Who glorify thy consecrated pages: Thou wert the throne and grave of empires.' FOOTNOTES: [3] This injunction has not been strictly followed; but we trust our friend will excuse us for putting him 'in print,' how much soever his modesty would prompt him to 'blush unseen.' EDS. KNICKERBOCKER. [4] Geneva is about one hundred and fifty miles from Lyons; and yet the fare was but ten francs. [5] This personage has the brief authority to demand four francs for affixing his cognomen to the passports of all who leave Geneva for this route. [6] Quoted in Dr. BEATTIE's beautiful work on Switzerland. THE BLIGHTED FLOWER. IF I could weep with customary wo, I, that have seen the good Borne on the rending flood, And mark'd the thing most loved the first to go; I that have seen the beautiful, the cherish'd, The earliest to depart; 'Twould bring unto my heart A pang like that I've felt when dearer things have perish'd. To see thee now, so innocent and sweet, Bud of the breathing morn, From life's young bosom torn, Doom'd, in thy properest bloom, the sudden stroke to meet; And, with an idle interest, I had prayed The doom for sterner heads, And colder climes and beds, Such as may better meet the tempest and the shade. Yet could such prayer avail, and the stern doom But spare this sweetest flower, The blight would lose its power, For in this blessed safety all would bloom. A mortal hand had never snapp'd its stem, Nor with an eye to mark, Its white amid the dark, Have trampled down to dust so rich a gem. Its doom, to us so dread, was writ on high, Where glories richer yet, In brighter circles set, Make it of little count when such as this must die. Though to thyself no loss--thy loss to know-- How much was thy delight, How lovely to the sight, Might make the fate go weep that dooms thee so.