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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
On self-condemning bosoms, it were here,

Where Nature, nor too sombre nor too gay,
Wild, but not rude, awful, yet not austere,
Is to the mellow Earth as Autumn to the year.

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
Their cherished gaze upon thee, lovely Rhine!
'Tis with the thankful glănce of parting praise :

More mighty spots may rise-more glaring shine,
But none unite, in one attaching maze,
The brilliant, fair, and soft,--the glories of old days.

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
Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps,

And throned Eternity in icy halls
Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls
The avalanche-the thunderbolt of snow !

All that expands the spirit yet appals,
Gather around these summits, as to show
How Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man below.





Lake Leman wooes me with its crystal face,

The mirror, where the stars and mountains view
The stillness of their aspect in each trace
Its clear depth yields

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
To waft me from distraction; once I loved

Torn ocean's roar; but thy soft murmuring
Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved,
That I with stern delights should e'er have been so moved.
It is the hush of night; and all between

Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear,
Mellowed and mingling, yet distinctly seen,

Save darkened Jura, whose capped heights appear
Precipitously steep; and drawing near,
There breathes a living frāgrance from the shore,

Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar,
Or chirps the grass-hopper one good-night carol more.
He is an evening reveller, who makes

His life an infancy, and sings his fill ;
At intervals, some bird from out the brakes,

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
Of men and empires,'tis to be forgiven,

That in our aspirations to be great
Our destinies o’erleap their mortal state,

ye are

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,
All is concentered in a life intense,

Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost,
But hath a part of being, and a sense
Of That which is of all Creator and Defence.

The sky is changed ! and such a change! Oh Night,

And Storm, and Darkness, ye are wondrous strong
Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light
Of a ark


in woman ar along,
From peak to peak, the rattling crags among,
Leaps the live thunder!—not from one lone cloud,

mountain now hath found a tongue ;
And Jura answers, through her misty shroud,
Back to the joyous Alps who call to her aloud !
And this is in the night:-Most glorious night!

Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight,-

A portion of the tempest and of thee !

How the lit lake shines,-a phosphoric sea-
And the big rain comes dăncing to the earth!

And now again 'tis black-and now, the glee
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain mirth,
As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth.


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,-
And glowing into day : we may resume
The march of our existence : and thus I,

Still on thy shores, fair Leman! may find room
And food for meditation, nor pass by
Much that may give us pause, if pondered fittingly,

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The fat Actor and the Rustic.—New MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
CARDINAL Wolsey was a man

Of an unbounded stomach, Shakspeare says,
Meaning, (in metaphor,) for ever puffing,
To swell beyond his size and span;

But had he seen a player in our days
Enacting Falstaff without stuffing,
He would have owned that Wolsey's bulk ideal

Equalled not that within the bounds

This actor's belt surrounds,
Which is, moreover, all alive and real.
This player, when the peace enabled shoals

Of our odd fishes
To visit every clime between the poles,
Swam with the stream, a histrionic Kraken,

Although his wishes
Must not, in this proceeding, be mistaken;
For he went out professionally,—bent
To see how money might be made, not spent.
In this most laudable employ

He found himself at Lille one afternoon,
And, that he might the breeze enjoy,
And catch a peep at the ascending moon,

Out of the town he took a stroll,

Refreshing in the fields his soul,
With sight of streams, and trees, and snowy fleeces,
And thoughts of crowded houses and new pieces.
When we are pleasantly employed time flies -
He counted up his profits, in the skies,

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
He couldn't gallop, trot, or canter,

(Those who had seen him would confess it) he

Marched well for one of such oběsity.
Eyeing his watch, and now his forehead mopping,

He puffed and blew along the road,
Afraid of melting, more afraid of stopping,

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.

I do not rise to waste the night in words;
Let that plebe'ian talk ; 'tis not my trade ;
But here I stand for right.—Let him show proofs;
For Roman right; though none, it seems, dare stand
To take their share with me. Ay, cluster there,
Cling to your master; judges, Romans-slaves !
His charge is false ; I dare him to his proofs.
You have my answer: ** *_Let my actions speak.
But this I will avow, that I have scorned,
And still do scorn, to hide my sense of wrong :
Who brănds me on the forehead, breaks my sword,
Or lays the bloody scourge upon my back,
Wrongs me not half so much as he who shuts

* Immediately.

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