from the tree of life; see thee hasten, full of longing, to thy Father's arms, bringing the young race of man, and the cup of a golden future, which shall never be exhausted. The mother soon followed thee in heavenly triumph; she was the first to join thee in the new home. Long ages have flown by since then, and ever in yet higher glory hath thy new creation grown, and thousands from out of pain and misery have, full of faith and longing, followed thee; roam with thee and the heavenly virgin in the realm of love, serve in the temple of heavenly Death, and are in eternity thine.

Lifted is the stone,

Manhood hath arisen:
Still are we thine own,

Unharmed by bond or prison.
When earth-life-fade away

In the last meal's solemn gladness,
Around thy cup dare stray

No trace of grief or sadness.

To the marriage, Death doth call,
The brilliant lamps are lighted;

The virgins come, invited,

And oil is with them all.

Space now to space is telling

How forth thy train hath gone,
The voice of stars is swelling
With human tongue and tone!

To thee, Maria, hallowed,

A thousand hearts are sent;
In this dark life and shadowed,
On thee their thoughts are bent:
The soul's releasement seeing
They, longing, seek its rest;
By thee pressed, holy being,
Upon thy faithful breast.

How many who, once glowing,
Earth's bitterness have learned,
Their souls with grief o'erflowing,
To thee have sadly turned;
Thou pitying hast appeared,
In many an hour of pain;
We come to thee now, wearied,
There ever to remain.

By no cold grave now weepeth
A faithful love, forlorn;

Each still love's sweet rights keepeth,
From none will they be torn.
To soften his sad longing

Her fires doth Night impart ;
From heaven cherubs thronging,
Hold watch upon his heart.

Content, our life advancing
To a life that shall abide,
Each flame its worth enhancing
The soul is glorified.

The starry host shall sink then
To bright and living wine,
The golden draught we drink then,
And stars ourselves shall shine.

Love released, lives woundless,

No separation more;

While life swells free and boundless

As a sea without a shore.

One night of glad elation,

One joy that cannot die,
And the sun of all creation

Is the face of the Most High.

IDLE FANCIES.

LABORIOUS WRITING.-The rich meadow, by much treading, may be worn to a barren waste.-Ye ponderous poets, bear ye this in mind-be careful of your grass!

THE BEATEN TRACK.-Walk in the beaten track, our good advisers say, lest the journey be needlessly prolonged.—What, if the way be longer-do we not well to exchange a beaten track for the green fields and the daisied turf?

--

SIGHS. As the storm-wind by the zephyr is frantic grief compared with the gentle sigh of sorrow. One scatters the blossoms, and uproots the flowers, leaving a desolation in its course; but the other comes to the heart, laden with perfumed gales of heaven, whispering sweetly of that better land, and, though it lightly bows the tender buds, it breaks them not.

HAL.

THE SUMMER-DAY SONG.

I'LL wreathe my lute with flowers that fade,
And buds that die ere even closes ;
Then seek some bower's remotest shade,

And lay me down among the roses :—
There, through the live-long summer day,
With all things fair around me smiling,
I'll wile the tedious hours away—
My solitude with song beguiling.

Awhile, as yet the wreaths I twined
Preserve the beauty of their seeming,
And, waving in the gentle wind,

Each rosy bud is brightly beaming,-
I'll sing the loveliness and grace

That wait on youth in life's gay morning,
And praise the charms that deck her face-
The heart's bright hopes her lot adorning.

But when at length the glorious sun

Shall cease to gild my lonely bower;
And when the day is well nigh done,

And faded every wreath and flower ;-
Oh! then I'll wake my tuneless string,
With all things fair around me dying,

The end of Beauty's reign to sing,

Youth's death-Hope's fall-and Grace's flying.

C. H. H.

THE SUN-LIT ROSE.

A PROUD rose glittered in the sun's bright beams, that cast a golden robe of splendour round the blushing flower. With compassion she looked down upon her sister in the shade; and when the hot noon-tide came she gloried yet the more; but in the evening the gay flower was withered.

Beneath the golden beams of wealth vain man exults; they shine down upon him, they exhaust each heaven-implanted odour, destroy each tender charm; deceived, he glories in their brightness. But the evening of life beholds a blighted, sapless, withered stem, that looks with envy on the hale old age, whose youth no charm but native worth adorned.

THE LADY OF EHRENECK.

FEW German legends are troubled with anything so-matter-offact as a date. I cannot tell, therefore, in what year it was that the proud family of Ehreneck relinquished possession of their castle to the owls and the bats, and the winds first filled its halls with the sound of wild revelry, that in man sad destinies had hushed. The thick ivy that climbs upon the castle towers has been my chief informant, its evidence is corroborated by many a crumbling and moss-covered stone, and thence I only learn that, without doubt, the period is distant.

Relinquishing, therefore, any attempt at a date, be it said, that in years long past, the gloomy pile of Ehreneck was inhabited, and that it then stood, as it still does, surrounded by rock and forest, in the very centre of the Hartz mountains. On one side the massive walls and towers rose abruptly continuous with a a lofty crag, whose base was shaken by the fall of a cataract into the ravine, a foaming cataract, that dashed from among the pines crowning an adjacent precipice. Mountains and deep forest were on the other sides, but these belong less intimately to our story.

The fair Rosaline was in her chamber, and looked forth into the glen, for the storm raged without, and she loved to gaze upon its fury. The black clouds swept before the moonlight as wrathful demons that would hide from human gaze an angel's glory; the wind whistled and crackled through the forest, bent the tall pines, and shook the castle walls. The swollen cataract roared, and leaped with kindred fury; and the Lady Rosaline looked forth upon the scene--for it was a noble sight; and in the tremendous warfare of the elements her mind forgot the petty feuds of man, and the dangers of the human contest in which her father was engaged. The knight of Ehreneck was absent from his castle, to besiege, according to knightly usage, the home of his enemy, Rodolf of Elfenstein.

The Lady Rosaline, having been taught by the raging storm how trivial are the little feuds of man, became next persuaded of the advantage of shelter during such a night as that on which she gazed. As she sat thus reflecting, during one of those lulls of the

tempest that usually precede a yet more furious burst, she fancied that the blast of a horn fell upon her ear; her doubt was soon satisfied, for the sound was repeated, and she became aware that some one craved admission at her own castle gate. What though the good knight, her father, was abroad, to whom could, on such a night, admission be refused? In a short time there stood before Rosaline a noble young warrior-I need not dwell upon his charms; enough that the Lady of Ehreneck, at the first glance, thought him the noblest she had ever seen, and many a brave knight, and courtier gay, had that proud beauty scorned.

No doubt that the shelter which the young knight sought from the tempest's fury was joyfully acceded, that the Lady Rosaline did her utmost for the entertainment of her guest-the unexpected enemy to whom her coward heart surrendered, the very instant be appeared in sight. But the young knight seemed scarcely sensible of the favours heaped upon him; more abstracted than is fairly to be excused when a lady seeks to entertain, the stranger substituted groans and sighs for answers to each flattering compliment, and paced the room as though the tempest still battled round his head, and he strove to escape once more from its impending horrors. Rosaline led him to the supper-table, where assembled serfs much marvelled that their beauteous lady's favours should be heaped upon such careless shoulders. And yet the stranger was not quite insensible. When ladies love (with love disinterested), 'tis hard indeed, if they cannot waken, in the favoured soul, some kindred feeling; few are the hearts that fail to be warmed when the pure, bright flame of love is bent assiduously upon them; and the young knight felt its influence; it may be, that had his mind otherwise been less disturbed, he would have thrown himself at the lady's feet, have craved her scarf to bind around his arm, that thus authorized, he might proclaim throughout Germany, Rosaline, his mistress, the fairest of the land, and couch a lance against the false breast of contradiction. He did not this, however; and Rosaline, who loved him yet the more for his mysterious conduct,―well considering, moreover, how soon he would depart,—did her best, when they were again alone, to arrive at some point agreeable to her inclinations; as a sensible damsel, having learned from her own suitors what a viper fruitless love becomes in the warm bosom of its cherisher, she determined that, if it could be prevented, she, at least, would not fall a victim to its cruel sting.

"Thou art disturbed, Sir Knight," observed Rosaline; “without