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,