Her wheel at rest, the matron thrills no more 2. Mark yon old mansion, frowning through the trees, 3. 4. 5. Childhood's loved group revisits every scene, The tangled wood-walk and the tufted green! Indulgent Memory wakes, and lo, they live! Clothed with far softer hues than Light can give; Thou first, best friend that Heaven assigns below To soothe and sweeten all the cares we know; Whose glad suggestions still each vain alarm, When nature fades and life forgets to charm ; Thee would the Muse invoke!-to thee belong The sage's precept and the poet's song. What softened views thy magic glass reveals, Long on the wave reflected lustres play; The school's lone porch, with reverend mosses gray, Just tells the pensive pilgrim where it lay; Mute is the bell that rung at peep of dawn, Up springs, at every step, to claim a tear, 66 Hazlitt called Rogers " a very lady-like poet," but Lord Jeffrey, the great Edinburgh critic, speaks of the banker's verses in a kindlier spirit. 'They do not indeed stir the spirits like the strong lines of Byron," he says, "nor make our hearts dance within us like the inspiring strains of Scott; but they come over us with a bewitching softness that, in certain moods, is still more delightful, and soothe the troubled spirits with a refreshing sense of truth, purity, and elegance." Some of Rogers's most animated lines are found in his poem entitled Italy, where he narrates a legend of one of the Orsini palaces, concerning the mysterious. disappearance and death, on her wedding-day, of a beautiful girl whose name was III.-Ginevra. 1. She was an only child; from infancy Her playmate from her birth, and her first love. 2. Just as she looks there in her bridal dress, She was all gentleness, all gayety, Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue. But now the day was come, the day, the hour; Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time, The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum ; And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco. 3. Great was the joy; but at the bridal feast, When all sat down, the bride was wanting there. Nor was she to be found! Her father cried, ""Tis but to make a trial of our love!" 4. And filled his glass to all; but his hand shook, Weary of his life, 5. Full fifty years were past, and all forgot, That mouldering chest was noticed; and 'twas said It burst, it fell; and lo, a skeleton, 6. With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone, Engraven with a name, the name of both, There then had she found a grave! There are several traditional stories of the same character as the foregoing, one of which, by Thomas Haynes Bayley, is the song entitled The Mistletoe Bough. CHAPTER XXVIII.-MISCELLANEOUS.-JEAN PAUL RICHTER. [Jean Paul Richter, popularly known as JEAN PAUL, a German author, born in 1763, died in 1825. His voluminous writings abound in a bewildering variety of playful, witty, pathetic, childlike, and sublime thoughts, and are pervaded by a high moral tone. The celebrated British author and German scholar, Thomas Carlyle, characterizes Jean Paul in the following manner:-] I.-Richter and his Writings. 1. Richter has been called an intellectual Colossus; and in truth it is still somewhat in this light that we view him. His faculties are all of gigantic mould; cumbrous, awkward in their movements; large and splendid rather than harmonious and beautiful; yet joined in living union, and of force and compass altogether extraordinary. 2. He has an intellect vehement, rugged, irresistible; crushing in pieces the hardest problems; piercing into the most hidden combinations of things, and grasping the most distant; an imagination vague, sombre, splendid, or appalling; brooding over the abysses of Being; wandering through Infinitude, and summoning before us, in its dim religious light, shapes of brilliancy, solemnity, or terror; a fancy of exuberance literally unexampled; for it pours its treasures with a lavishness which knows no limit, hanging, like the sun, a jewel on every grass-blade, and sowing the earth at large with orient pearl. 3. Of writings which, though with many reservations, we have praised so much, our hesitating readers may demand some specimen. To unbelievers, unhappily, we have none of a convincing sort to give. Ask us not to represent the Peruvian forests by three twigs plucked from them; or the cataracts of the Nile by a handful of its water! To those, meanwhile, who will look on twigs as mere dissevered things, and a handful of water as only so many drops, we present the following. It is a summer Sunday night; Jean Paul is taking leave of the Hukelum Parson and his wife; like him we have long laughed at them or wept for them; like him, also, we are sad to part from them. II.-Sunday Night.—A Revery. 1. We were all of us too deeply moved. We at last tore ourselves asunder from repeated embraces; my friend retired with the soul whom he loves. I remained behind, alone with the Night. 2. And I walked without aim through woods, through valleys, and over brooks, and through sleeping villages, to enjoy the great Night, like a Day. I walked, and still looked, like the magnet, to the region of midnight, to strengthen my heart at the gleaming twilight, at this upstretched aurora of a morning beneath our feet. White night-butterflies flitted, white blossoms fluttered, white stars fell, and the white snow-powder hung silvery in the |