MUSINGS.

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THERE is a small cloud in the sky, And for an hour an evening hour
In peace it sails along;

Of rural solitude,
Upon the chesnut tree on high

I come to view the field and flower, The linnet sings its song.

And stand, where I have stood ! A gentle breathing air is out,

Like gushing rills, a thousand thoughts With lonely sound it grieves ;

O’erpower my sinking mind ; It bends the grass, it plays about

Within my heart, the well known spots The inside of the leaves.

Their pictured image find. It stirs the surface of the lake,

And dreams, that have been long subdued, In wrinkles bending far,

In fair succession rise ; Until the marge they gain, and break Dim shadows o'er my bosom brood, Where water lilies are.

And tears bedim mine eyes. The flowers of spring are beautiful,

With her, who was the source of bliss, And well their sight may cast

I never else had found, Before our visions, fresh and full,

'Twas heaven, on such an eve as this, The memory of the past.

To tread this very ground ! The spirit alters : ne'er again

I see her smiles- I list her words Wil life restore the hours

Her winning looks I see; Of innocence, when, free from pain, The very music of the birds Our day was like the flowers !

I hear from yonder tree ! No doubts to check, no fears to dim

'Tis well the brightest things of earth Our cloudless destiny;

Are half with shade o'ercast ; Like little barks, 'twas ours to swim I could not wish my present mirth Upon a summer sea.

To emulate the past. The playfulness, the pride of heart, The hills, the fields, the woods, the sky, As seasons journeyed by

Are fair, as fair can be; Were quenched, and youth came to impart They are not altered to the eye, More thoughtfulness of eye.

The change pertains to me. And passions, that without a wing,

But yet, methinks, my soul could share Lay sleeping in their cells,

The glories of the scene ; Came forth, as, at the touch of spring, My heart its vanish'd frame repair, The dewy buds and bells.

And be what it hath been! But thou the princess wert of all,

Ah! no--my bosom could not melt Delicious, holy love,

With thoughts, that once had moved; Adored in cot, and palace hall,

We cannot feel, as we have felt ; In city, and in grove.

Nor love as we have loved ! What marvel, then, that I should be And holier far the thoughts must be A worshipper of thine ?

Of things, whose relics sleep That I should leave the world, and flee In silence, 'neath the whelming sea, To kneel before thy shrine !

Than such as sail the deep. Long years have past and hope, and grief, The weeds that rustle o'er the grave, And fear, and doubt, and strife,

When evening lowers around,
I since have found, make up the brief, Tongues language more persuasive have,
And clouded span of life.

Than any living sound.
And dreams of past existence bright

A double charm impart,
'They are like rainbows to the sight,

And lessons to the heart.

SABBATH NOON.

The bell's sonorous chime hath died away
Upon the slumbering air ; earth, heaven, are still,
As the deep unbreathing quiet of the tomb;
But yet it is a pause of harmony,
A vacancy inducing pleasing thoughts,
A silence, where no troublous dreams obscure,
That unto pleasure owe not origin,
Have power to enter. Placid is the sky,
Though not unclouded-verdant are the fields,
In summer robe luxuriant-green the hills-
More deeply green the forests, through whose boughs
Brightly the river glistens in the sun,
Running towards the sea--the glowing sea,
That spreads its waveless breast, whereon the ships
Lie moveless ; cables, masts, and furled shrouds
Thro' the clear atmosphere distinctly seen.

The tribes of lower nature, even the mass
Of this material world,-rocks, hills, and vales,
Forests and rivers, seem to understand
Or feel the influence of this holy day.
All strife is hushed : at frequent intervals
A gushing music wakens in the air
From tiny bills unseen ; upon the bough
Of lofty beech tree, calm the raven sits
Inactive, with bright eye, and glossy wing:
The linnet, swinging on the topmost bough
Of bloomy furze, is silent; and the bee,
Languidly humming on from flower to flower,
Seems making music of its daily toil :-
Yea, even this verdant mound, whereon I rest
With meditative volume, seems to feel,-
Op'ning its bells and daisies to the sun,
A kind of silent, tranquil happiness,
Which may be deep, although it speaketh not.

Over the summit of the dark green trees,
Stretching aloft, the rural church's spire,
O’ertopp'd by glittering vane, is clearly seen,
Amid the pure, clear atmosphere : within
The habitants of all the hamlets round,
Parents and children, youth and hoary eld,
Decent, decked out in holiday attire,
Lift up the tribute of devoted hearts,
The best—the holiest of all offerings,
To Him, the great Creator of them all,
Who gave them life and being-eyes to see
The glories of the universal world,
The beauties shower'd around them-hearts to feel
The tenderness of passion, all the joys
That life in its relationships affords :
And lofty souls, which, when this frame of clay,
Melting, shall pass away, and be no more,
Shall taste the glories of undying youth,
And in its immortality be strong;

Oh ! holy is the noon of sabbath day,
Unbreathing ;--holier still its purple eve;
What time above the hills the western sun
Shoots his long rays aslant; and, in the wave,
The elm trees throw their sombrous shadows far.

Embalmed in Recollection's silent eye
Are many evenings such, more sweet, more soft,
More richly beautiful, than ever more,
-While being lights its sublunary lamp-
Shall bless this heart of mine. Thro' yellow fields,
Green forests, and by gleaming waters blue,
With those whom fate or friendship linked to me,
Tell I the bliss of wandering ; every thought
For such a season uncongenial,
For suc

a scene, exiled, and banished far,
No earthly care to damp the joyous heart,
In innocent mirth exulting, or destroy
Visions of glory thatcan never be !

Our life is but a journey. Happy eves !
Ye ne'er can be forgotten !--twined with youth
In glorious recollection, ye arise ;
The crimson of your sunshine on the hills,
Your forests green, and waveless waters blue;
And holier still, and lovelier, feelings warm,
That now are scarcely felt, and lofty hopes,
That, like a rainbow, from the summer sky
Have passed away, and left no trace behind.

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THE AURORA BOREALIS. A SONNET. 'Tis midnight; and the world is hushed in sleep:

Distant and dim the southern mountains lie;

The stars are sparkling in the cloudless sky; And hollow murmurs issue from the deep, Which, like a mother, sings unto its isles.

Sure spirits are abroad! Behold the north

Like a volcano glows; and, starting forth, Red streaks like Egypt's pyramids in files Lo! Superstition, pallid and aghast,

Starts to his lattice, and beholds in fear, Noiseless, the fiery legions thronging fast,

Portending rapine and rebellion near : For well he knows that dark futurity Throws forward fiery shadows on the sky!

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GREECE. A SONNET.

LAND of the muses, and of mighty men!

A shadowy grandeur mantles thee; serene
As morning skies, thy pictur'd realms are seen,
When ether's canopy is clear, and when
The very zephyrs pause upon the wing

In ecstasy, and wist not where to stray.

Beautiful Greece! more glorious in decay Than other regions in the flush of spring: Thy palaces are tenantless;—the Turk

Hath quenched the embers of the holy fane ;

Thy temples now are crumbling to the plain,
For time hath sapped, and man hath helped the work.
All cannot perish-thy immortal mind
Remains a halo circling round mankind,

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HORÆ GERMANICÆ.

No IV.

[We have been prevented from giving our promised analysis of one of Oeħlenchläger's tragedies this month: but shall certainly redeem our pledge in next Number. The following article consists of a translation of one of the short tales of the Baroness de la Motte Fouquéma lady whose compositions, both in verse and prose, enjoy, at present, great popularity all over Germany. She is the wife of that Baron de la Motte Fouqué whose beautiful story of UNDINE has been translated into English- and whose MAGIC-RING, WALDEMAR the PILGRIM, and EGINHARD and EMMA, ought all to be translated immediately. We hope soon to make our readers better acquainted with the genius both of husband and of wife,

The French sound of their name may surprise our readers : but, we believe, the fact is, that the present Baron de la Motte Fouqué is the lineal representative of a Huguenot nobleman, who left France at the period of the revocation of the Edict of Nantz, and acquired considerable estates in the Prussian dominions. Many villages, and even whole towns, in the western parts of old Prussia, are almost entirely inhabited by the descendants of these French refu. gees, among whom the language of their forefathers is still spoken. The Baron, however, writes in German and few authors of his day write more purely or more energetically. His lady is, we believe, of a Saxon family of high distinction.]

The Cypress Crown, a Tale. By the BARONESS, CAROLINE DE LA Motte FOUQUE'. The promises of peace, which for many ly child, stationed in an high bowmonths had been depending, came at window, raised its round white arms last to be fulfilled. The army return- on high, and receiving from its weeped home; with seriousness and solem- ing, turned-away mother, a coronet of nity they entered once more the libe- leaves, threw it down

among

the

pasrated and wonderfully rescued capital. sing troops beneath. A lancer, who

It was a Sunday morning. Since happened to be the first to notice this day-break, young and old had been occurrence, good-humouredly took up pressing through the streets towards the the wreath on his lance, while he gates. The guards could with diffi- playfully nodded to the fair little angel culty keep any degree of authority in above. "He had his eyes still directed the storm of unrestrained and irresisti- in this manner, when his commanding ble joy.

officer, riding on, exclaimed, “ Ha! Crowded, squeezed, and as it were, Wolfe !ma cypress wreath! How twined and twisted through each other, came you by such a thing-it may be stood this expectant assembly; and thought an unlucky omen !” Wolfe

r as the wished for moment approached, put the crown on his right arm, howbecame the more deeply and inwardly ever, and not without some discomaffected. There was scarcely a sound posure rode on ! audible in the multitude, when at last After a long tedious delay, employthe powerful yet melancholy voice of ed in putting up the horses in the rethe trumpets gave their first greeting gimental stables, giving them water from afar. Then tears fell from a and provender, the quarter-billets at thousand eyes; many a breaking heart last were distributed. Wolfe, on rewas chilled ; and on the lips of all, ceiving his ticket, had the mortification low and anxious whispers trembled. to perceive that it directed him to the Now shone the first gleams of armour house of a well-known rich butcher! through the open gates.Scattered His comrades wished him joy-rallied flowers and garlands flew to meet him on the good eating which awaited them; for every tree had paid its tri- him; and profited by the opportunity bute; every garden had granted a share to invite themselves frequently to befrom its variegated treasures. A love. come his guests. He, meanwhile, took

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*

on his

off his schalco * in silence, twisted the venture it till he had gone a little billet among its gold tassels, and twice way. He then looked round at them, passing his hand through his luxuriant and shook his lance, half jesting, half locks, he said, not without considerable angry. They made faces at him in vexation, “this, forsooth, is rare luck! return, but soon began to disperse, No doubt the rich miser is well enough and Wolfe proceeded on the road to known!-I heartily wish, however, that his quarters. I had been quartered anywhere else!" He had not gone far when he found

Ha, ha! what a silly fellow you the street and the number. Already must be !" cried a bold knowing com- at a distance he saw a gigantic man in rade" what is it to you, pray, if your his shirt-sleeves, standing under the host is a miser or a spendthrift? Only door-way. His countenance of a dusky let him be rich enough-then a soldier yellow complexion, was quite shaded is sure to be well off. However, you over by coal-black bushy projecting must begin with politeness and ad- eyebrows; the small eyes, devoid of dress--every thing depends on good intellect, appeared to watch the rolling management." “ That is very true, vapours of a short pipe.-One hand I grant you !" said Wolfe, as he threw was placed in the waistcoat pocket, his knapsack over his shoulder- the other seemed to dance up and “ but there are a set of people in the down the silver knots of the pipe, world on whom all politeness is thrown which rested ever and anon away, and who have no heart or feel goodly person. Wolfe saluted him ing for man nor beast. If ever I meet courteously, and, with a modest bow, with a butcher's waggon in the streets, shewed him his billet; upon which full of miserable animals tied and the man squinted at him sidewise, and bundled together, and see how the without attending any further to his poor beasts lie there over and under guest, he pointed, with his thumb one another, groaning sometimes, so bent backwards, to the house at the that it cuts one to the heart, and mark same time adding, in a gloomy and how the fellows plod on behind the indifferent tone" Only go in there, cart in utter indifference-whistling Sir! my people know already." Wolfe perhaps all the time, I have much ado bit his lips, and entering somewhat to withhold myself from falling on, abruptly, his sabre that rattled after and beating the scoundrels heartily! him, happened to inflict a pretty Besides, to say the truth, I have had sharp blow across the legs of Mein-herr enough of blood and slaughter, and John, his landlord." What the debegin to be disgusted with the whole vil in hell !" grumbled the butcher. trade!”

Wolfe, however, did not allow himself " Oh !” cried his laughing compa- to enter into any explanation or disnions, “ Wolfe cannot bear the sight pute, but passed on, and came into of blood-Thou chicken-hearted fel the court. He found there a pale low !.And when did this terror come and sickly-looking girl carrying two upon thee?"_" Don't talk non- buckets of water. Wolfe, drawing sense,” replied Wolfe angrily~" in near to her, inquired if she was the battle, when man stands against man, servant of his landlord ? The girl reand besides, when there are different mained silent, and as if terrified motives for action, (laying his hand on standing before him. She had set his iron cross) one looks neither to the down the two buckets on the ground, right nor the left, but in a soberer and looked on him with large rayless mood-well then, I shall not deny it, eyes unsteadily. Her complexion seemwhenever I pass by a butcher's stall, ed always to become more pale, till she and see the bloody axe, and hear (or resembled a marble statue more than fancy that I hear) the groans of agony, an animated being. Meanwhile, as I feel inwardly, as if the fibres of my Wolfe renewed his question, she let heart were torn-and therefore, I do her head sink upon her breast, and wish that I had been quartered any taking up the buckets again, she said, where else!”

with her eyes fixed on a short flight His comrades began to laugh at him of steps that led by a servant's door more than ever, though they did not into the house, “ Come up here; and

* The square cap worn by the Prussian Lancers.