How proudly those hush'd towers receive the glow That mellows the gold sunset--and the trees, Clasping with their deep belt the festal hills, Are ting'd with summer-beauty; the rich waves Swell out their hymn o'er shells and sweet blue flow'rs, And haply the pure seamaid, wandering by, Dips in them her soft tresses. The calm sea, Floating in its magnificence, is seen Like an elysian isle, whose sapphire depths Entranc'd the Arabian poets! In the west, The clouds blend their harmonious pageantry With the descending sun-orb; some appear Like Jove's immortal bird, whose eyes contain'd An essence of its sanctity--and some Seem like proud temples, form'd but to admit The souls of god-like men! Emerald and gold And pink, that softens down the aerial bow, Are interspersed promiscuously, and form A concentration of all lovely things! And far off cities, glittering with the pomp Of spire and pennon, laugh their joyance up In the deep flood of light. Sweet comes the tone Of the touch'd lute from yonder orange bow'rs, And the shrill cymbal pours its elfin spell Into the peasant's being! A sublime And fervid mind was _his_, whose pencil trac'd The grandeur of this scene! Oh! matchless Claude! Around the painter's mastery thou hast thrown An halo of surpassing loveliness! Gazing on thy proud works, we mourn the curse Which 'reft our race of Eden, for from thee, As from a seraph's wing, we catch the hues That sunn'd our primal heritage ere sin Weav'd her dark oracles. With thee, sweet Claude! _Thee!_ and blind Maeonides would I dwell By streams that gush out richness; there should be Tones that entrance, and forms more exquisite Than throng the sculptor's visions! I would dream Of gorgeous palaces, in whose lit halls Repos'd the reverend magi, and my lips Would pour their spiritual commune 'mid the hush Of those enchanting groves! _Deal_. REGINALD AUGUSTINE. * * * * * THE NOVELIST A LEGEND OF THE HARTZ. (_For the Mirror_.) "Still the boar held on his way Careless through what toils it lay, Down deep in the tangled dell-- Or o'er the steep rock's pinnacle. Staunch the steed, and bold the knight That would follow such a flight!" The night was fast closing in, and the last retiring beams of the sun shed a mournful light over an extensive tract of forest bordering upon the district of the Hartz, just as (but I must not forget the date, somewhere about the year 1547,) the Baron Rudolf found himself in the very disagreeable predicament of having totally lost his companions and his way, amidst an almost interminable region of forest and brushwood. "Hans," addressing himself to his noble steed, "my old veteran, I must trust to thee, since thy master's wit is at a stand, to extricate us from this dilemma."