Ah, happy things! ye may not wander From Scotland to some darker sky, But ever live unchanging yonder, To happiness and Mary nigh; While I at midnight, sadly weeping, Upon its deep transparent blue Can only gaze, while all are sleeping, And dream my Mary watches too! SONNET: TO MRS. ---- ---- ---- BY W. GILMORE SIMMS. SWEET Lady! in the name of one no more, Both of us loved, and neither can forget, Make me thy brother, though our hearts before, Perchance have never in communion met: Give me thy gentle memories, though there be, Between our forms, some thousand miles of sea, Wild tract, and weary desert: let me still, Whate'er the joy that warms me, or the thrill That tortures, and from which I may not flee-- Hold a sweet, sacred place within thy breast! In this, my spirit shall be more than blest; And, in my prayers, if haply prayers of mine Be not a wrong unto a soul like thine, There shall be blessings from the skies for thee. RANDOM PASSAGES FROM ROUGH NOTES OF A VISIT TO ENGLAND, SCOTLAND, FRANCE, SWITZERLAND, AND GERMANY. NUMBER SIX. SWITZERLAND, (CONCLUDED) GERMANY. LAUSANNE, AUGUST 26.--We left St. Bernard, well pleased with our hosts, and hastened back to Martigny, where we procured an open carriage, and proceeded directly to St. Maurice, there to lodge. The ride along the banks of the Rhone, in the cool of the evening, was delicious. As it grew dark, the bonfires of the chamois-hunters were lit up here and there on the distant mountains; and among other things, we passed a beautiful cascade, seven hundred feet high, flowing out of a solid rock. At half past three this morning, we were aroused from our slumbers at St. Maurice, to take the omnibus for Villeneuve, at the head of the Lake of Geneva. It was just after sunrise, on another soft and lovely morning, when we stepped on board the steamer 'Le Leman' to sail down this glorious lake, now placid and smooth as a mirror. The boat was well filled, principally with English tourists. We passed near the walls of the famous Castle of Chillon, where Bonnivard, Byron's 'Prisoner,' lingered in chains: 'Chillon! thy prison is a holy place, And thy sad floor an altar--for 'twas trod, Until his very steps have left a trace, Worn as if thy cold pavement were a sod, By Bonnivard!--May none those marks efface, For they appeal from tyranny to God!' The castle is at the foot of the hill, on the very margin of the lake, and seems almost to rise out of the water. The poet has finely pictured in his 'Prisoner' a striking scene of loneliness, amidst nature's fairest works. We passed Clarens, too, the 'sweet Clarens' of the author of 'Helöise:'