Though the barr'd windows, barr'd against the wolf,
Are always open! But the North blew cold:
And, bidden to a spare but cheerful meal,
I sat among the holy brotherhood

At their long board. The fare indeed was such
As is prescrib'd on days of abstinence,

But might have pleas'd a nicer taste than mine;
And through the floor came up an ancient crone,
Serving unseen below; while from the roof
(The roof, the floor, the walls of native fir,)
A lamp hung flickering, such as loves to fling
Its partial light on Apostolic heads,

And sheds a grace on all. Theirs time as yet
Had chang'd not.1 Some were almost in the prime;
Nor was a brow o'ercast. Seen as they sat,
Rang'd round their ample hearth-stone in an hour
Of rest, they were as gay, as free from guile,
As children; answering, and at once, to all
The gentler impulses, to pleasure, mirth;
Mingling, at intervals, with rational talk

Music; and gathering news from them that came,
As of some other world. But when the storm 2

The monks are of the order of St. Augustine. They are all young men, who enter upon this devoted service at eighteen, and few remain, if they survive, the term of their vow, fifteen years; the severity of the winter impairing their health, so that they are obliged to retire to a more genial climate.

2 These tourmentes, as they are called, are of frequent occurrence, and almost every year are attended with loss of life. They consist of a kind of whirlwind, which is either accompanied by a fall of snow, or fills the air with that recently falling, while the flakes are still dry, and tosses them in the air like dust. In an instant, the atmosphere is obscured with snow, and earth, sky, mountain, landmark, every thing, is obliterated from the view of the unfortunate traveller. Sometimes these gusts sweep the rock, in some places, bare of snow, heaping it up in others, perhaps, to a height of 20 feet across the path, so that at every step the wayfarer fears to fall

Rose, and the snow roll'd on in ocean-waves,
When on his face the experienc'd traveller fell,
Sheltering his lips and nostrils with his hands,
Then all was chang'd; and, sallying with their pack
Into that blank of nature, they became
Unearthly beings. "Anselm, higher up,
Just where it drifts, a dog howls loud and long,
And now, as guided by a voice from Heaven,
Digs with his feet. That noble vehemence
Whose can it be, but his who never err'd ?!
A man lies underneath! Let us to work!
But who descends Mont Velan ? 2 "Tis La Croix.
Away, away! if not, alas, too late.

Homeward he drags an old man and a boy,
Faltering and falling, and but half awak'd,
Asking to sleep again." Such their discourse.
Oft has a venerable roof receiv'd me;

St. Bruno's once 3 where, when the winds were hush'd,

Nor from the cataract the voice came up,

You might have heard the mole work underground, So great the stillness of that place; none seen, Save when from rock to rock a hermit cross'd

-

By some rude bridge or one at midnight toll'd
To matins, and white habits, issuing forth,
Glided along those aisles interminable,
All, all observant of the sacred law

On the St. Gothard,

into an abyss, or to sink into the snow. large parties of men and animals have been overwhelmed by these snow wreaths, which sometimes attain a height of 40 or 50 feet. The guides can generally foresee the occurrence of these tourmentes by the appearance of the sky and other weather signs.

Alluding to Barri, a dog of great renown in his day. His skin is stuffed, and preserved in the Museum of Berne. The highest peak of the mountain.

3 The Grande Chartreuse, near Grenoble. St. Bruno retired to this spot in 1084, and from a neighbouring village, Cartuse or Chartreuse, the order derived its name.

Of Silence. Nor is that sequester'd spot,
Once call'd "Sweet Waters," now

Vale1,"

"The Shady

To me unknown; that house so rich of old,
So courteous, and, by two that pass'd that way,
Amply requited with immortal verse,

The poet's payment. But, among them all,
None can with this compare, the dangerous seat
Of generous, active virtue. What though Frost 2
Reign everlastingly, and ice and snow

Thaw not, but gather—there is that within, Which, where it comes, makes summer; and, in thought,

Oft am I sitting on the bench beneath

Their garden-plot, where all that vegetates
Is but some scanty lettuce, to observe

Those from the south ascending, ev'ry step
As though it were their last, and instantly
Restor❜d, renew'd, advancing as with songs,
Soon as they see, turning a lofty crag,
That plain, that modest structure, promising
Bread to the hungry, to the weary rest.

ROGERS.

1 The Benedictine Abbey of Vallombrosa, formerly called Acqua Bella, near Florence. It was founded about the middle of the 11th century, and was visited by Ariosto and Milton. The latter was there at the fall of the leaf, and describes it in the 4th book of Paradise Lost.

2 Even in summer the ice does not always melt in the lake on the summit, and some years (as in 1816), not a week has passed without snow falling. It always freezes early in the morning, even in the height of summer, and the hospice is rarely four months clear from deep snow. Around the building, it averages 7 or 8 feet, and the drifts sometimes rest against it, and accumulate as high as 40 feet. The severest cold recorded was 29° below zero of Fahrenheit, the greatest summer heat 68°.

I WOULD not be

THE ASPEN LEAF.

A leaf on yonder aspen tree!
In every fickle breeze to play,
Wildly, weakly, idly, gay,

So feebly fram'd, so lightly hung,

By the wing of an insect stirr'd and swung ;
Thrilling ev'n to a redbreast's note,
Drooping if only a light mist float,

Brighten'd and dimm'd like a varying glass,
As shadow or sunbeam chance to pass:-
I would not be

A leaf on yonder aspen tree.

It is not because the autumn sere

Would change my merry guise and cheer,-
That soon, full soon, nor leaf, nor stem,
Sunlight would gladden, or dew-drop gem,
That I, with my fellows, must fall to the earth,
Forgotten our beauty and breezy mirth,
Or else on the bough where all had grown,
Must linger on, and linger alone;

Might life be an endless summer's day,
And I be for ever green and gay,

I would not be, I would not be,
A leaf on yonder aspen tree!
Proudly spoken, heart of mine,

Yet weakness and change perchance are thine,
More, and darker, and sadder to see,

Than befal the leaves of yonder tree!

What if they flutter? their life is a dance;

Or toy with the sunbeam? they live in his glance;
To bird, breeze, and insect, rustle and thrill,
Never the same, never mute, never still,-
Emblems of all that is fickle and gay,
But leaves in their birth, but leaves in decay-
Chide them not-heed them not, spirit, away!

In to thyself, to thine own hidden shrine.

What there dost thou worship? what deem'st thou

divine?

Thy hopes,-are they steadfast, and holy, and high? Are they built on a rock? are they rais'd to the

sky?

Thy deep secret yearnings, oh! whither point they?

To the triumphs of earth, to the toys of a day?— Thy friendships and feelings,-doth impulse pre

vail,

To make them, and mar them, as wind swells the

sail?

Thy life's ruling passion-thy being's first aimWhat are they? and yield they contentment or shame?

Spirit, proud spirit, ponder thy state,

If thine the leaf's lightness, not thine the leaf's fate,
It may flutter, and glisten, and wither, and die,
And heed not our pity, and ask not our sigh:
But for thee, the immortal, no winter may throw
Eternal repose on thy joy, or thy woe;

Thou must live-live for ever-in glory or gloom,
Beyond the world's precincts, beyond the dark tomb.
Look to thyself, then, ere past is hope's reign,
And looking and longing alike are in vain!
Lest thou deem it a bliss to have been or to be,
But a fluttering leaf on yon aspen tree.

MISS JEWSBURY.

A THANKFUL HEART.

A THOUSAND blessings, Lord, to us thou dost impart: We ask one blessing more, O Lord-a thankful heart.

TRENCH.