Then I turned, and on those bright hopes pondered Towards my left-hand pocket for a pipe. On, on the vessel steals; For king-like rolls the Rhine, And the victuals and the wine From every crag we pass'll And the vine her little arms stretches And you'll make no end of sketches, We've a nun here (called Therèse), One Yankee, with a face Like a ferret's: And three youths in scarlet caps Has its merits. Then sinks behind yon ridge; And keen's the air and cold, And on the silent river The floating starbeams quiver ;— Avenues of broad white houses, Elsewhere lawns, and vista'd gardens, Such is Munich:-broad and stately, There, the long dim galleries threading, Records of the years of old: Pallas there, and Jove, and Juno, "Take" once more "their walks abroad," Under Titian's fiery woodlands And the saffron skies of Claude : There the Amazons of Rubens Lift the failing arm to strike, And in Berghem's pools reflected Laugh amid the Seville grapes; And all the purest, loveliest fancies Lo! her wan arms folded meekly, Kneels the Magdalene in prayer; And the white-robed Virgin-mother On the calm face of her Child :— And that mighty Judgment-vision Past the frontier-walls of Time ; Heard the trumpet-echoes rolling Thence we turned, what time the blackbird Pipes to vespers from his perch, And from out the clattering city Past into the silent church; Marked the shower of sunlight breaking Through the crimson panes o'erhead, And on pictured wall and window Till the kneelers round us, rising, Crossed their foreheads and were gone; Layer on layer the night came on. (From "Verses and Translations." Cambridge: Deighton, Bell, and Co. By permission of the Author.) THE ONE THOUGHT. ALEXANDER PETÖFI, (The Magyar Poet.) ONE thought lies heavy on my heart, May fade as slowly fades the flower A beauteous, but a useless life, When comes the Day-God from the east Great Father! grant this may not be, A rock torn from a mountain-brow, A lightning-struck and blasted trunk, A death where meets a fettered race, In mustered rank and serried line With red flag flashing to the breeze The sacred signal there inscribed The signal that sends far and wide To east to west, to north to south, (Copyright Translation-Contributed.) MR. TONKS'S GREAT CHRISTMAS FAILURE. [Albert Smith was born in 1812, and was educated with a view to his following the profession of a surgeon. He began life as the assistant in his father's medical practice at Chertsea, and subsequently commenced on his own account as a surgeon-dentist in Percy Street, Tottenham Court Road. He began his literary career by contributing to "The Mirror," a weekly periodical, which, under the editorship of Mr. John Timbs, had a long and successful career. On the establishment of "Bentley's Miscellany," he sent in his first prose sketch of any length, "A Rencontre with the Brigands," which was accepted. From this time forth he plied a busy pen, contributing to Punch in its earlier days (when Punch was hot and strong, and not a mere safety valve for the superfluous steam of the Times), "The Natural History of Evening Parties," and the "Physiology of the London Medical Student." He next contributed The Adventures of Mr. Ledbury" to "Bentley's," and took to writing for the stage, but it was during the last ten years of his life, when he started and continued that celebrated "Ascent of Mont Blanc," which everybody went to see, that Albert Smith may with truth be said to have become "the pet of the public." Enjoying a very numerous circle of acquaintances, authors, artists, and the like, and the idol of his Club, Mr. Smith did not, it is to be feared, allow himself all the repose necessary to his mental exertions. Shortly |