Radiant with rosy light are thy blue skies, Fair Italy! thou land of love and song! And thou, bright Isle of Erin! whence arise The avenging spirits of a nation's wrong, Thou too art fair, and worshipped in the eyes Of men and nations to whom tears belong; But yet, oh! yet we feel, blest land and free, One pulse more strongly beating, still for thee! VI. Autumn hath crowned thee glorious, radiant clime! Autumn, the holiest season to the heart, Making thy sunsets with all hues sublime, The faultless picture of the Eternal art! To love thee less, New-England! 'twere a crime, More could we not, ourselves of thee a part; Tears are thine offering; prayers unceasing be Poured from the heart Imperial Land! for thee. _New-York, July 1, 1843_ E. B. G. 'MENS CONSCIA RECTI.' A CHRONICLE OF IDLEBERG. NICHOLAS PELT, the worthy pedagogue, whose history was suspended in the July number of his namesake, the 'Old KNICK.,' was not long in establishing for himself a fair fame in all the region round about Idleberg; nor was his attention exclusively devoted to the monotonous duties of his profession. While he taught the young idea 'how to shoot,' a new and absorbing passion had taken deep root in his own heart, and was now flourishing luxuriantly in the genial soil. His fortunes had brought him to Idleberg, and thrown in his path the lovely image of Ellen Van Dyke; and what poor mortal, Yankee though he be, could resist her thousand fascinations? Every day, at home, in the midst of her domestic duties and her ten petticoats, she was beautiful enough, in all conscience; but when on frequent occasions she braided her hair, and pinched her cheeks for a bloom, and clasped around her neck that enchanting dove of jet and gold, poor Nicholas looked and sighed, and sighed and looked, as though his very existence depended on her smile.