A SYLVAN SEARCH.

  I.

  From tales of rural gods I rose,
    And sought them through the woody deeps,
  Where, held in shadowy, sweet repose,
    The sunshine, like Endymion, sleeps—­
  Where murmurous waters softly sing
    To listening branches, bended low,
  And tuneful birds on waving wing,
    As Zephyrus, gently come and go.

  II.

  Vainly I sought the gods, yet heard
    Their whispering spirits say to mine,
  “Who seeks us finds the forests stirred
    By myriad voices all divine,
  And learns that still the mystic spell
    Of fauns and dryads fills the place
  With beauty myths have failed to tell—­
    One god in every hidden face.”

MARY B. DODGE.

THE SONGS OF MIRZA-SCHAFFY.

It was in Vienna during the stormy days of October, 1848.  The sky was lurid with the glow of surrounding conflagrations:  roof and turret were illumined by the glaring reflection of the sea of fire, while the broad Danube madly stretched forth its blood-red tongue to the blood-red walls of the city.  The clashing of weapons and rolling of drums resounded through the streets.  Every house became in its turn a fortress, every window a porthole.  During these days of horror there assembled in the evening at the dwelling of Friedrich Bodenstedt a circle of friends, who sought in conversation on literary topics some relief after the agitating experiences of the day.

“Bodenstedt,” exclaimed Auerbach on one of these occasions, “tell us of your adventures in the East.  Awake with blithesome touch the memories of your past:  transport us into a new world where will be dispelled the gloom of the present.”

“Yes, do,” chimed in the rest, drawing their chairs closer together.

“Tell us, above all, of your famous teacher, Mirza-Schaffy,” added Kaufmann.

One usually narrates one’s experiences best in a circle of sympathetic listeners, and even under ordinary circumstances Bodenstedt was esteemed a good talker.  Soon a spirit of cheerfulness prevailed, and as the friends sat far into the night, the tumult without, the burning suburbs, the beat of drums and the firing of cannons were forgotten.

Night after night the friends met—­poets, philosophers, men of learning, artists—­and sat, to use Bodenstedt’s own words, “on the carpet of expectation, smoked the pipe of satisfaction, saw the sunshine of wine sparkle up from the flask, and fished for words of pearls with the delicate nets of the ears.”  The story of Eastern life grew and rounded in its proportions, and Auerbach, who seemed most of all entranced, insisted that the source of so fascinating a narrative should be guided through the “canal of the pen into the sea of publicity.”  Bodenstedt demurred, maintaining that the “art-hewn path from the head to the hand” was far more difficult to traverse than the natural one from the mouth to the ear.