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The Contrasts of Alpine Scenery.-BYRON. ADIEU to thee, fair Rhine! how long, delighted,
The stranger fain would linger on his way! Thine is a scene alike where souls united,
Or lonely Contemplation thus might stray;
And could 'the ceaseless vultures cease to prey
Where Nature, nor too sombre nor too gay,
Adieu to thee again! a vain adieu !
There can be no farewell to scenes like thine; The mind is colored by thine every hue ;
And if reluctantly the eyes resign
More mighty spots may rise-more glaring shine,
The negligently grand, the fruitful bloom
Of coming ripeness, the white city's sheen, The rolling stream, the precipice's gloom,
The forest's growth, and Gothic walls between,
The wild rocks, shaped as they had turrets been, In mockery of man's art; and these withal
A race of faces happy as the scene, Whose fertile bounties here extend to all, Still springing o'er thy banks, though empires near them fall.
But these recede. Above me are the Alps,
The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls
And throned Eternity in icy halls
All that expands the spirit yet appals,
Lake Leman wooes me with its crystal face,
The mirror, where the stars and mountains view
of their far height and hue. There is too much of man here, to look through, With a fit mind, the might which I behold;
But soon in me shall loneliness renew Thoughts hid, but not less cherished than of old, E’er mingling with the herd had penned me in their fold.
* Clear, plăcid Leman! thy contrasted lake
With the wide world I've dwelt in is a thing Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake
Earth’s troubled waters for a purer spring.
This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing
Torn ocean's roar; but thy soft murmuring
Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear,
Save darkened Jura, whose capped heights appear
Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear
His life an infancy, and sings his fill ;
Starts into voice a moment, then is still.
There seems a floating whisper on the hill ;But that is fancy; for the starlight dews
All silently their tears of love distil, Weeping themselves away till they infuse Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues. Ye stars ! which are the poetry of heaven,
If, in your bright leaves, we would read the fate
That in our aspirations to be great
And claim a kindred with you; for
A beauty and a mystery, and create In us such love and reverence from afar, That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star. All heaven and earth are still,—though not in sleep,
But breathless, as we grow when feeling most; And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep:
All heaven and earth are still: From the high host
Of stars to the lulled lake, and mountain coast,
Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost,
And Storm, and Darkness, ye are wondrous strong
in woman ar along,
mountain now hath found a tongue ;
Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be
A portion of the tempest and of thee !
How the lit lake shines,-a phosphoric sea-
And now again 'tis black-and now, the glee
Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings ! ye,
With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul To make these felt and feeling, well may be
Things that have made me watchful :—the far roll
of your departing voices is the knoll Of what in me is sleepless,
if I rest. But where, of ye, 0 tempests! is the goal ? Are ye
like those within the human breast ? Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest ?
The morn is up again, the dewy morn,
With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom, Laughing the clouds away, with playful scorn,
And living as if earth contained no tomb,-
Still on thy shores, fair Leman! may find room
The fat Actor and the Rustic.—New MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
Of an unbounded stomach, Shakspeare says,
But had he seen a player in our days
Equalled not that within the bounds
This actor's belt surrounds,
Of our odd fishes
Although his wishes
He found himself at Lille one afternoon,
Out of the town he took a stroll,
Refreshing in the fields his soul,
Until the moon began to shine; On which he gazed a while, and then
Pulled out his watch, and cried—“Păst nine ! Why, zounds! they shut the gates at ten.”Backward he turn'd his steps instanter *
Stumping along with might and main;
And, though 'tis plain
(Those who had seen him would confess it) he
Marched well for one of such oběsity.
He puffed and blew along the road,
When in his path he met a clown Returning from the town. “Tell me,” he pănted in a thawing state, “Dost think I can get in, friend, at the gate ?"
“Get in !" replied the hesitating loon, Measuring with his eye our bulky wight, "Why-yes, Sir,-I should think you might;
“ A load of hay went in this afternoon."
Speech of Catiline before the Roman Senate, in reply to the charges of Cicero.-CROLY's Catiline.
CONSCRIPT Fathers !