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The proposal to present some passages of poetry in the form of prose appears to have given so much satisfaction to our readers, that we purpose to introduce more of them. Here is another from the same author—a glorious passage in the first volume of Ruskin's Modern

Painters.

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STAND upon the peak of some isolated mountain at daybreak, when the night mists first rise from off the plains, and watch their white and lake-like fields, as they float in level bays and winding gulfs about the islanded summits of the lower bills

, untouched yet by more than dawn, colder and more quiet than a windless sea under the moon of midnight; watch when the first sunbeam is sent upon the silver channels, how the foam of their undulating surface parts and passes away, and down under their depths the glittering city and green pasture lie like Atlantis, between the white paths of winding rivers; the flakes of light falling every moment faster and

among the starry spires, as the wreathed surges break and vanish above them, and the confused crests and ridges of the dark hills shorten their grey

shadows upon

the plain. Has Claude given this ? Wait a little longer, and you shall see those scattered mists rallying in the ravines, and floating up towards you, along the winding valleys, till they couch in quiet masses, iridescent with the morning light

, upon the broad breast of the higher hills, whose leagues of massy undulation will melt back and back into that robe of material light, until they fade away, lost in its lustre, to appear again above, in the serene heaven, like a wild, bright impossible dream, foundationless and inaccessible, their very

broader

bases vanishing in the unsubstantial and mocking blue of the deep lake below. Has Claude given this ? Wait yet a little longer, and you shall see those mists gather themselves into white towers, and stand like fortresses along the promontories, massy and motionless, only piled with every instant higher and higher into the sky, and casting longer shadows athwart the rocks; and out of the pale blue of the horizon

you will see forming and advancing a troop of narrow, dark, pointed vapours, which will cover the sky, inch by inch, with their grey network, and take the light off the landscape with an eclipse which will stop the singing of the birds and the motion of the leaves, together; and then you will see horizontal bars of black shadow forming under them, and lurid wreaths create themselves, you know not how, along the shoulders of the hills; you never see them form, but when you look back to a place which was clear an instant ago, there is a cloud on it, hanging by the precipices, as a hawk pauses over his

prey.

Has Claude given this? And then you will hear the sudden rush of the awakened wind, and you will see those watch-towers of vapours swept away from their foundations, and waving curtains of opaque rain let down to the valleys, swinging from the burdened clouds in black bending fringes, or pacing in pale columns along the lake level, grazing its surface into foam as they go. And then, as the sun sinks, you shall see the storm drift for an instant from off the hills, leaving their broad sides smoking, and loaded yet with snow-white, torn, steamlike rags of capricious vapour, now gone, now gathered again ; while the smouldering sun, seeming not far away, but burning like a red-hot ball beside you, and as if you could reach it, plunges through the rushing wind and rolling cloud with headlong fall, as if it meant to rise no more, dyeing all the air about it with blood. Has Claude given this? And then you shall hear the fainting tempest die in the hollow of the night, and you shall see a green halo kindling on the summit of the eastern hills, brighter-brighter yet, till the large white circle of the slow moon is lifted up among the barred clouds, step by step, line by line; star after star she qnenches with her kindling light, setting in their stead an army of pale, penetrable, fleecy wreaths in the heaven, to give light upon the earth, which move together, hand in hand, company by company, troop by troop, so measured in their unity of motion, that the whole heaven seems to roll with them, and the earth to reel under them. Ask Claude, or his brethren

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for that. And then wait yet for one hour, until the east again becomes purple, and the heaving mountains, rolling against it in darkness, like waves of a wild sea, are drowned one by one in the glory of its burning: watch the white glaciers blaze in their winding paths about the mountains, like mighty serpents with scales of fire : watch the columnar peaks of solitary snow, kindling downwards, chasm by chasm, each in itself a new morning; their long avalanches cast down in keen streams brighter than the lightning, sending each his tribute of driven snow, like altar-smoke, up to the heaven; the rose-light of their silent domes flushing that heaven about them and above them, piercing with purer light through its purple lines of lifted cloud, casting a new glory on every wreath as it passes by until the whole heaven, one scarlet canopy, is interwoven with a roof of waving flame, and tossing, vault beyond vault, as with the drifted wings of many companies of angels : and then, when you can look no more for gladness, and when you are bowed down with fear and love of the Maker and Doer of this, tell me who has best delivered this His message unto men!

TIME'S CURE.

ANONYMOUS.

MOURN, O rejoicing heart !

The hours are flying,
Each one some treasures takes,
Each one some blossom breaks,

And leaves it dying;
The chill dark night draws near,
The sun will soon depart,

And leave thee sighing;
Then mourn, rejoicing heart !

The hours are flying!
Rejoice, O grieving heart,

The hours fly fast,
With each some sorrow dies,
With each some shadow flies,

Until at last

The red dawn in the east
Bids weary night depart,

And pain is past :
Rejoice then, grieving heart,
The hours fly fast!

THE COLISEUM.

By EDGAR A. PoE, the American poet.
TYPE of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary
Of lofty contemplation left to time
By buried centuries of pomp and power !
At length—at length-after so many days
Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst,
(Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lien)
I kneel, an alter'd and an humble man,
Amid thy shadows, and so drink within
My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory!

Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld!
Silence! and Desolation ! and dim Night!
I feel ye now
W-I feel

ye
in

your strength-
O spells more sure than e'er Judæan king
Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane !
O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee
Ever drew down from out the quiet stars !

Here, where a hero fell, a column falls!
Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold,
A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat !
Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair
Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle!
Here, where on golden throne the monarch lollid,
Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home,
Lit by the wan light of the hornéd moon,
The swift and silent lizard of the stones!

But stay! these walls—these ivy-clad arcades-
These mouldering plinths—these sad and blackend

shafts-
These vague entablatures—this crumbling frieze-
These shatter'd cornices—this wreck—this ruin-
These stones—alas! these gray stones-are they all-
All of the famed and the colossal left
By the corrosive hours to fate and me?

“Not all”—the echoes answer me—“not all !
Prophetic sounds and loud arise for ever
From us, and from all ruin, unto the wise,
As melody from Memnon to the sun.
We rule the hearts of mightiest men—we rule
With a despotic sway all giant minds.
We are not impotent—we pallid stones.
Not all our power is gone—not all our fame-
Not all the magic of our high renown-
Not all the wonder that encircles us-
Not all the mysteries that in us lie-
Not all the memories that hang upon
And cling around about us as a garment,
Clothing us in a robe of more than glory."

THE ANGEL'S CALL.

By Mrs. HEMANS.
Come to the land of peace!
Come where the tempest hath no longer sway,
The shadow passes from the soul away,

The sounds of weeping cease!

Fear hath no dwelling there!
Come to the mingling of repose and love,
Breath'd by the silent spirit of the dove

Through the celestial air !

Come to the bright and blest,
And crown'd for ever!-'midst that shining band,
Gather'd to heaven's own wreath from every land,

Thy spirit shall find rest !

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