And then, a throng of mournful thoughts would press
On this, my wild-ideal loneliness.

Me, oft hath Fancy too, in musing hour
Seated (what time the blithesome summer-day
Was burning 'neath the fierce meridian ray)
Within that self-same lonely woodland bow'r
So sultry and still; but _then_, the tower,
The hamlet tow'r, sent forth a roundelay;
I seem'd to hear, till feelings o'er me stole
Faintly and sweet, enwrapping all my soul,
Joy, grief, were strangely blended in the sound.
The light, warm sigh of summer, was around,
But ne'er may speech, _such_ thoughts, _such_ visions tell,
Then, perfect most, when _indescribable!_

M.L.B.


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FINE ARTS

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THE PROGRESS OF PAINTING IN FRANCE.