“ AM I, TOO, IN ARCADIA ?”

BY BERNARD BARTON.

WHAT minstrel's glance could coldly view
A scene which, to the poet's eye
And vivid fancy, might renew

The vanished dream of Arcady!

To me, with so much pastoral grace
This delicate creation teems,

That, while each varied charm I trace,
The golden age no vision seems.

Imagination's airy flight

Transports me far, to distant times, Bearing my thoughts, on pinions bright, To simpler manners-sunnier climes.

Methinks, amid such scenes as this,
Must they have dwelt-the bards of old,
Whose numbers, of Arcadian bliss,
And Tempe's beauteous vale, have told.

In whose immortal song is shown,
Graceful of form, and fresh of dye,
What pencils such as CLAUDE's alone,
From charms like nature's, can supply.

Delightful painter! though I feel
No envy of thy noble art,
Grateful, I own the proud appeal
Its glorious triumphs can impart.

Appeal-which, unto outward sense,
Speaks in a language so refined;
Triumphs-whose deeper eloquence
Proclaim their mastery o'er the mind.

And, what could genius win from fate, Which thine to thee has failed to give? Living-such beauty to create !

And, dying-IN THY WORKS TO LIVE!

THE DREAM.

A TALE.

"WELL, Senhors! what say you? Is not this a fortunate termination of our day's adventure ?" exclaimed young Siegendorf, to his travelling companions. "A night spent in the pine-wood, on the summit of Melibocus, or upon the Felsen Meer, 'Sea of Rocks,' in the valley below, would have been cheerless enough, after our fatiguing scramble over steep cliffs and rugged mountains. Push round the bottle, gallants, and do honour to the toast

'The Rhine! the Rhine! be blessings on the Rhine! Saint Rochus bless the land of love and wine!" "

Percy Fitzallan, the only Englishman of the party, had never visited the Continent before. Young, enthusiastic, and deeply read in German literature, his excursion to the Odenwold had been productive of the highest degree of gratification. From the heights of the Berg Strasse hills, his eyes had drank in a wide and lovely prospect, rendered doubly interesting from the associations connected

F

with it. The laughing Rhine rolled its blue waves through an extensive plain, and washed the bases of the dark walls of successive cities, in its course. The Gothic towers of Spires first caught the eye; then Manheim, and the lofty point of the ancient cathedral of Worms; lower down, Mentz, dear to those who have luxuriated over the strange legends of the mightiest master of the forbidden art, Faust; Strasbourg was visible in the distance; whilst, stretching far to the west, beyond spreading cornfields, gemmed with villages, and dimly seen through a veil of silvery mist, the view was bounded by the Vosges mountains, the fair and fertile hills of jocund France. Immediately beneath, to the eastward, lay the fantastic regions of the Odenwold, girt with the granite ribs of mother earth, with its wild rocks vine-garlanded, its towering castles, and deep umbrageous woods.

Nearly benighted, one of Percy's companions had, luckily, met with a chasseur, belonging to the keeper of the forest, and he had conducted them to the shelter of the Baron's hunting lodge. An excellent supper, accompanied by numerous flaggons of choice wine, from Hockheim and the Rhinegau, greeted the fatigued and hungry party. Percy did ample justice to the repast, but, though usually in gay spirits, he spoke little: wholly engrossed in the novelty of his situation, the sprightly conversation of the hilarious party could not awaken him from the reverie in which he indulged.