THERE is a romance mingled with this sweet, Wild forest scenery; this cool, deep glade, Whose nooks at noon are dark with thickest shade, These gulfs where boughs of beech and maple meet And mingle in the sultry mid-day heat; Dark hollow, and green bluff, all teem with wild And glorious legends. From this cliff up-piled With moss-stained rocks, where mid his green retreat In the dense thicket the brown wood-thrush sings, Far through the landscape's mild and mellowing haze I mark the battle-fields of other days, Fields trod of old by the red Mohawk kings, And misty valleys golden with the blaze Which Summer from the heaven of August flings. _Utica_, (_New-York_,) 1843. H. W. R. SABBATH IN THE COUNTRY. BY PETER VON GRIST. IT is Sunday in our pleasant village, and the very air seems to feel it. It is lighter and purer than it was yesterday, and moves stealthily, as though afraid of breaking the general stillness by its rustling. The shops are all shut, but there is no gloominess about them: they too are enjoying the season of rest. And three or four venerable cows are stretched on the green common, lulled to a state of philosophic calmness, and sunk in sober meditation. What delicious music the church-bell makes! It rings out, _sotto voce_; and the still, charmed air modulates with a gentle motion, like unbroken ripples on the surface of a sleeping pond. First comes a single, heavy peal; then a vibration, like a distant echo; then another, fainter and more distant still; and another, and another, each fainter and quicker than the preceding; till in the course of a few seconds nothing is heard but a confused jingling; and while we are thinking whether this jingling is not that which we sometimes hear in our ears at the dead of night, and which we then decide to be fairy-bells, afar off, another heavy stroke sends down another clear, sweet wave of sound, and the process of vibrations is repeated.