EARCH.

I.

From tales of rural gods I rose,
And sought them through the woody deeps,
Where, held in shadowy, sweet repose,
The sunshine, like Endymion, sleeps--
Where murmurous waters softly sing
To listening branches, bended low,
And tuneful birds on waving wing,
As Zephyrus, gently come and go.

II.

Vainly I sought the gods, yet heard
Their whispering spirits say to mine,
"Who seeks us finds the forests stirred
By myriad voices all divine,
And learns that still the mystic spell
Of fauns and dryads fills the place
With beauty myths have failed to tell--
One god in every hidden face."

MARY B. DODGE.

THE SONGS OF MIRZA-SCHAFFY.

It was in Vienna during the stormy days of October, 1848. The sky was
lurid with the glow of surrounding conflagrations: roof and turret
were illumined by the glaring reflection of the sea of fire, while
the broad Danube madly stretched forth its blood-red tongue to the
blood-red walls of the city. The clashing of weapons and rolling of
drums resounded through the streets. Every house became in its turn a
fortress, every window a porthole. During these days of horror there
assembled in the evening at the dwelling of Friedrich Bodenstedt a
circle of friends, who sought in conversation on literary topics some
relief after the agitating experiences of the day.

"Bodenstedt," exclaimed Auerbach on one of these occasions, "tell
us of your adventures in the East. Awake with blithesome touch the
memories of your past: transport us into a new world where will be
dispelled the gloom of the present."

"Yes, do," chimed in the rest, drawing their chairs closer together.

"Tell us, above all, of your famous teacher, Mirza-Schaffy," added
Kaufmann.

One usually narrates one's experiences best in a circle of sympathetic
listeners, and even under ordinary circumstances Bodenstedt was
esteemed a good talker. Soon a spirit of cheerfulness prevailed, and
as the friends sat far into the night, the tumult without, the burning
suburbs, the beat of drums and the firing of cannons were forgotten.

Night after night the friends met--poets, philosophers, men of
learning, artists--and sat, to use Bodenstedt's own words, "on the
carpet of expectation, smoked the pipe of satisfaction, saw the
sunshine of wine sparkle up from the flask, and fished for words of
pearls with the delicate nets of the ears." The story of Eastern life
grew a