larch breathes around a tone, somewhat higher than the diapason of the fir; while the willow, with her drooping tresses, utters a mournful sob. And as the thick rains come dancing to the earth, the tall poplar, with its graceful wave of recognition, and the weeping birch, sorrowing over the scene, breathe around a delicious fragrance-an incense thrown upon the altar of the King of Storms, as if to appease his anger, to allay the fury of his might, and to soothe the anger of his displeasure, by an offering emanating from the very heart.

tuous storm.

Louder and louder still comes on the impeThe tall timber trees toss their branches on high. The whole wood is up in arms; and varied voices mingle in one universal roar upon roar.

"As clouds thicken the night,

Hark, how the tempest crashes through the forest!

The owls fly out in strange affright;

The columns of the evergreen palaces

Are split and shattered;

The roots creak and stretch and groan;

And ruinously overthrown,

The trunks are crushed and battered

By the fierce blast's unconquerable stress.'

The big rain descends in torrents. The Spirit

*Shelley's translation of a passage from Goethe's Faust.

of the Storm, enthroned upon the winds, hurls below his fiery bolts, as he hurries along. The black mass of clouds is cleft in twain by the forked lightnings. Crash succeeds to crash. The terrible artillery of heaven roll their thunders peal upon peal. The deep echoes of the wood are awakened from their slumbers, and they shout the alarm at the very top of their many-mingled voices. The monarch of the wood is laid prostrate, with a deep groan. The tempest-army still moves onward with a sweep of terror; and the roar, fainter and fainter, indicates that it will soon be lost in the dark distance. And behold! At the far distant extremity of the riding, the clouds are opening their sable vest; and the crescent moon comes forth and throws her brilliant beam up the long avenue, silvering the tops of the tall trees, dispelling the deep gloom below, and blessing the roost of the little bird-the bow of hope new bent in heaven-the herald of gladness-the messenger of peace.

THE WELLS.

Upon the sprynge of fresh welles,

Hopinge to dwelle and no where elles.

GOWER.

Of welles sweet and colde ynow, of lessen and of mede. R. GLOUCESTER.

THAT man, be his station in society whatever it may—be he attired in the regal robe, wielding the sceptre of a great empire for the achievement of all the mighty purposes of true greatness-be he clothed in the garb of the labouring artisan, handling the mallet and driving the chisel, and filling up his gap of existence by a life of usefulness to his fellow-creatures -be he possessed of power, swaying the destinies of nations by his matchless eloquence in the senate, advocating the great principles of heavenly truth and of human freedom-be he com

monest hodman to the commonest brick-setter --that man, even in the present disorganized condition of society, having, as indeed all men have, more or less, a vein of poetry existing in his very heart, although, perhaps, incapable of its expression-that man never disdains, or turns away from the sight of all that is beautiful and attractive in inanimate nature.The peaceful valley, with its equally peaceful river-the rugged cliff, with its headlong torrent-the sleeping lake that knows no dream— the solemn wood, with its melodious hymn and full-voiced chorus-the waving corn-field, with sea-like undulations-the quiet meadow, with cattle feeding the mute sunbeam, with its glance from heaven-even the gushing WELLS -all objects separate in themselves, or combined, form a whole embraced in the word landscape, upon which the eye loves to dwell, until, gazing onwards, its beauty fades away in the dim distance, and earth itself seems to touch the hem of heaven.

The sight of each component part of the picture-its shadows as well as its lights-its more prominent objects, which, with the foil of the cloudless skies, stand most conspicuouly out, as well as those of minuter character

which seem partly lost in the obscurity of more sombre hues-even exclusive of the matchless excellence of the whole, the production of the Almighty artist—is calculated to revive the remembrance of the days of boyhood—

"Turning to mirth all things of earth,

As only boyhood can;”—

those hours, when the opening bloom of the heart has not been stained with the tears and storms of the world, nor blighted by the breath of care, nor struck down by the hand of injustice, nor defeated in the tiger-fight of self-interest

-moments, when the sun of happiness was bright above, and the flowers of truth, and affection, and innocence were blooming below, and all went "merry as the marriage bell." Let any man, worthy of the name of man, be placed in any situation in after life-let him attain the highest eminence in the land, not by climbing the pinnacle of fame like the snail, leaving the slimy traces of his infamous progress, but, having cleaved the highest heaven of invention, by descending upon the apex with the wings of the eagle-let him be a wanderer or an exile in foreign lands-let him be doomed to a life of toil, and pain, and penury, when every thing is lost but the faintest gleam of the