With the descending sun-orb; some appear
  Like Jove’s immortal bird, whose eyes contain’d
  An essence of its sanctity—­and some
  Seem like proud temples, form’d but to admit
  The souls of god-like men!  Emerald and gold
  And pink, that softens down the aerial bow,
  Are interspersed promiscuously, and form
  A concentration of all lovely things! 
  And far off cities, glittering with the pomp
  Of spire and pennon, laugh their joyance up
  In the deep flood of light.  Sweet comes the tone
  Of the touch’d lute from yonder orange bow’rs,
  And the shrill cymbal pours its elfin spell
  Into the peasant’s being! 
                            A sublime
  And fervid mind was his, whose pencil trac’d
  The grandeur of this scene!  Oh! matchless Claude! 
  Around the painter’s mastery thou hast thrown
  An halo of surpassing loveliness! 
  Gazing on thy proud works, we mourn the curse
  Which ’reft our race of Eden, for from thee,
  As from a seraph’s wing, we catch the hues
  That sunn’d our primal heritage ere sin
  Weav’d her dark oracles.  With thee, sweet Claude!
  Thee! and blind Maeonides would I dwell
  By streams that gush out richness; there should be
  Tones that entrance, and forms more exquisite
  Than throng the sculptor’s visions!  I would dream
  Of gorgeous palaces, in whose lit halls
  Repos’d the reverend magi, and my lips
  Would pour their spiritual commune ’mid the hush
  Of those enchanting groves!

Deal.

REGINALD AUGUSTINE.

* * * * *

THE NOVELIST

A LEGEND OF THE HARTZ.

(For the Mirror.)

  “Still the boar held on his way
  Careless through what toils it lay,
  Down deep in the tangled dell—­
  Or o’er the steep rock’s pinnacle. 
  Staunch the steed, and bold the knight
  That would follow such a flight!”

The night was fast closing in, and the last retiring beams of the sun shed a mournful light over an extensive tract of forest bordering upon the district of the Hartz, just as (but I must not forget the date, somewhere about the year 1547,) the Baron Rudolf found himself in the very disagreeable predicament of having totally lost his companions and his way, amidst an almost interminable region of forest and brushwood.  “Hans,” addressing himself to his noble steed, “my old veteran, I must trust to thee, since thy master’s wit is at a stand, to extricate us from this dilemma.”