And, at last, all was dark: — then I felt
A cold sadness steal over my heart;
And I said to myself, "Such is life!
So its hopes and its pleasures depart.”

But I lifted mine eyes up; and, lo!
An answer was written on high,
By the finger of God himself,

In the depths of the dark-blue sky.

There appeared a sign in the east,-
A bright, beautiful, fixed star!
And I looked on its steady light
Till the evil thoughts fled afar;

And the lesser lights of heaven
Shone out with their pale, soft rays,-
Like the calm unearthly comforts
Of a good man's latter days.

And there came up a sweet perfume
From the unseen flowers below,
Like the savour of virtuous deeds, —
Of deeds done long ago.

EXERCISE CXV.

THE ARTIST'S WIFE'S ALBUM. Howitt.

OUR visit to Retsch, -the poet-illustrator of Shakspeare, Schiller, and Goethe,* in his well-known outlines, was a genuine Arcadian episode, a dip into the fine simplicity of poetical existence, passed in the bosom of nature, a refined rusticity, a fragment of the golden age. This noble artist has a house at Dresden, where, in winter, he receives his friends, and where a most interesting class of persons is to be met; but in summer he retires to his "weinberg," that is, his vineyard, at Tosnitz, six or seven miles down the valley.

* The oe in Goethe, (or the ö in Göthe,) sound nearly like au in the French word cœur ; the h is silent; and the e final sounds like ay in day, but shorter in quantity..

They who would know exactly where his abode there is, may readily see it by standing on the fine airy bridge at Dresden, and looking down the valley to the next range of hills. On their ridge, at Tosnitz, stands a tower; directly below it, at the foot of the hills, is a white house; and there nestles Retsch in his poetical retirement, maturing those beautiful conceptions which have given him so wide a fame.

A pleasant drive down the valley, brought us into the region of vineyards, which, in the bright colours of autumn, did not want for picturesque effect. In the midst of these, we found the very simple cottage of the artist. His wife and niece compose all his family; and he can muse on his fancies at will. His house was furnished as German houses often are, somewhat barely, and with no trace of picture or print upon the walls; but a piano and heaps of music told of the art of which his wife is passionately fond. While noticing these things, a very broad and stout-built man, of middling stature, and with a great quantity of gray hair, stood before us. By portraits which we had seen of him, and which are like and yet unlike, we immediately recognized him. Though polite, yet there was a coldness about his manner, which seemed plainly to say, "Who are these who come to interrupt me out of mere curiosity? for they are quite strange to me."

When, however, he understood that Mrs. Howitt was the English poetess in whom he had expressed so much interest, a mist seemed to pass from his eyes; he stretched out his arms, grasped her hand in both of his, and shook it with a heartiness that must have been felt for some minutes after. He then gave one hand to our daughter and another to myself, with equally vigorous demonstrations of pleasure, and set about to display to us every thing that he thought could gratify us. Through various narrow passages, and up various stairs of his rustic abode, he conducted us to his own little study, where he showed to us from the window, his vineyard running up the hill, pulled from the shelf a copy of Mrs. Howitt's "Seven Temptations," and sat on a table, where he told us he had sketched most of the outlines of Faust and Shakspeare. He exhibited to us drawings and paintings in profusion, till his niece appeared with a tray bearing splendid wine and grapes from his own vineyard; a perfect little picture in itself, for in the pretty and amiablelooking niece we could see the prototype of a good many of his young damsels in his sketches. He then drew forth from under a heap of drawings, the album of his wife, a book

which, from Mrs. Jameson's interesting description, we had a great desire to see.

This is most unquestionably the most valuable and beautiful album in the world. It is filled with the most perfect creations of his fancy, whether sportive or solemn, as they have accumulated through years; and it is a thousand pities that they are not published during his lifetime, while he could superintend their execution, and see that justice was done them. It is a volume of the poetry of sublimity, beauty, and piety; for, while he is the finest illustrator of the ideas of great poets, he is also a great poet himself, writing out his imaginations with a pencil. The zephyrs besetting his wife on a walk, fluttering her dress, and carrying off her hat, is a charming piece of sportiveness; the Angel of Goodness blessing her, is most beautiful with the heavenly beauty of love; Christ as a youth, standing with an axe in his hand, before the shop of Joseph, with children about him, to whom he is pointing out the beauties of nature, and thence unfolding to them the Creator, is full of the holiest piety and youthful grace; the Angel of Death, "severe in youthful beauty," and the sublime figure of Imagination advancing on its way, and looking forward into the mysteries of futurity, are glorious creations. In short, this gem of a book, with its truly wonderful drawings, not merely outlines, but most delicately and exquisitely finished, will one day raise still higher the true fame of this great original artist.

We had gone so far with the Herr Professor, (as he is there called,) into the fairy land, or rather heaven of poetry, that we were startled to find the day going fast over. As we turned over these charmed leaves, the artist sat by, and read to us his written description of the various sketches, ever and anon breaking away into half-moralizing, half-sentimental and poetical observations, quite in the spirit of his fancies. We were extremely sorry that the arrangements for our farther journey did not allow us once more to return to this simple and happy retreat of the muses of poetry and painting. With true country cordiality, himself, his wife, and lovely niece, accompanied us to our carriage; and as we whirled away through the ocean of vines, the good-hearted man stood and waved his cap to us, till the last turn shut out from view him and his house.

SOFTLY the blended light of evening rests Upon thee, lovely stream! Thy gentle tide, Picturing the gorgeous beauty of the sky, Onward, unbroken by the ruffling wind, Majestically flows.-Oh! by thy side, Far from the tumults and the throng of men, And the vain cares that vex poor human life, "Twere happiness to dwell, alone with thee, And the wide solemn grandeur of the scene! From thy green shores, the mountains that enclose In their vast sweep the beauties of the plain, Slowly receding, toward the skies ascend, Enrobed with clustering woods, o'er which the smile Of Autumn in his loveliness hath passed, Touching their foliage with his brilliant hues, And flinging o'er the lowliest leaf and shrub His golden livery. On the distant heights Soft clouds, earth-based, repose, and stretch afar Their burnished summits, in the clear blue heaven, Flooded with splendour, that the dazzled eye Turns drooping from the sight. — Nature is here Like a throned sovereign; and thy voice doth tell, In music never silent, of her power.

Nor are thy tones unanswered, where she builds
Such monuments of regal sway.
These wide,

Untrodden forests eloquently speak,

Whether the breath of Summer stir their depths,
Or the hoarse moaning of November's blast
Strip from the boughs their covering.

All the air

Is now instinct with life. The merry hum
Of the returning bee, and the blithe song
Of fluttering bird, mocking the solitude,
Swell upward; and the play of dashing streams,
From the green mountain side, is faintly heard.
The wild swan swims the water's azure breast
With graceful sweep, or startled, soars away,
Cleaving with mounting wing the clear bright air

where each mound

Oh! in the boasted lands beyond the deep,
Where beauty hath a birth-right,
And mouldering ruin tells of ages past,-
And every breeze, as with a spirit's tone,
Doth waft the voices of oblivion back,
Waking the soul to lofty memories,

Is there a scene whose loveliness could fill

The heart with peace more pure?—Nor yet art thou, Proud stream! without thy records,

graven deep
On yon eternal hills, which shall endure
Long as their summits breast the wintry storm,
Or smile in the warm sunshine. They have been
The chroniclers of centuries gone by,

Of a strange race, who trod perchance their sides,
Ere these gray woods had sprouted from the earth
Which now they shade. Here onward swept thy waves,
When tones now silent mingled with their sound,
And the wide shore was vocal with the song
Of hunter chief, or lover's gentle strain.
Those passed away,- forgotten as they passed;
But holier recollections dwell with thee:
Here hath immortal Freedom built her proud
And solemn monuments. The mighty dust
Of heroes in her cause of glory fallen,
Hath mingled with the soil, and hallowed it.
Thy waters in their brilliant path have seen
The desperate strife that won a rescued world, -
The deeds of men who live in grateful hearts, -
And hymned their requiem.

Far beyond this vale That sends to heaven its incense of lone flowers, Gay village spires ascend, — and the glad voice Of industry is heard. —So, in the lapse

Of future years, these ancient woods shall bow
Beneath the levelling axe, and Man's abodes
Displace their sylvan honours. They will pass
In turn away; yet, heedless of all change,
Surviving all, thou still wilt murmur on,
Lessoning the fleeting race that look on thee,
To mark the wrecks of time, and read their doom.