LINES.

THY quiet radiance falls upon my spirit,
Like the cool starshine on a fevered brow,
And I from thee a still delight inherit,

As from fresh leaves that round my footsteps grow.

In thy great freedom to commune with me,

As summer clouds stoop down to bathe the hills,

I feel the greatness of my destiny,

A solemn anthem through my being thrills.

In the long summer days I sit by thee,

And gaze upon thy beauty evermore,

A deeper depth of peace those eyes unfold to me,
As I with growing calm their tranquilness explore,
In thee what buds of possibility

Await the wooing air, to tempt them into birth.
O'er thee what heavenly serenity

Shall spread its joy, as blue skies beauty over earth,
Thy life to thee unconsciously shall be,

As fragrance to the flower, or greenness to the leaves,
And then shall pass this earth as noiselessly,
As the fair cloud its fleecy variation weaves,
Fain would I sit by thee, till life grew dim,
Hearing thy beauty chant its wondrous hymn;
False pupil were I, learned I not from thee,
That thou to me one revelation art

Of the great beauty, which eternally
Is the apparel of the central heart.

X.

Sad-eyed Fakirs swiftly say
Endless dirges to decay,

Who never in the blaze of light
Lose the shudder of midnight,

Who at overflowing noon

Hear wolves barking at the moon,
In the bower of dalliance sweet
Hear the far Avenger's feet,

And shake before those awful Powers,
Who in their pride forgive not ours.
Thus the sad-eyed Fakirs preach;
'Bard, when thee would Allah teach
And lift thee to his holy mount,
He sends thee from his bitter fount
Wormwood; saying, Go thy ways,
Drink not the Malaga of praise,
But do the deed thy fellows hate,
And compromise thy peaceful state.

Smite the white breasts which thee fed,
Stuff sharp thorns beneath the head
Of them thou shouldst have comforted.
For out of wo and out of crime
Draws the heart a lore sublime.'
And yet it seemeth not to me
That the high gods love tragedy,
For Saadi sat in the sun,

And thanks was his contrition,
For haircloth and for bloody whips
Had active hands and smiling lips,
And yet his runes he rightly read,
And to his folk his message sped.
Sunshine in his heart transferred
Lighted each transparent word.
And well could honoring Persia learn
What Saadi wished to say;

For Saadi's nightly stars did burn
Brighter than Dschami's day.

Whispered the muse in Saadi's cot;
O gentle Saadi, listen not,
Tempted by thy praise of wit,
Or by thirst and appetite,
For the talents not thine own,
To sons of contradiction,
Never, son of eastern morning,
Follow falsehood, follow scorning,
Denounce who will, who will deny,
And pile the hills to scale the sky,
Let theist, atheist, pantheist,
Define and wrangle how they list,
Fierce conserver, fierce destroyer,
But thou joy-giver and enjoyer,
Unknowing war, unknowing crime,
Gentle Saadi, mind thy rhyme,
Heed not what the brawlers say,
Heed thou only Saadi's lay.

Let the great world bustle on

With war and trade, with camp and town;
A thousand men shall dig and eat;
At forge and furnace thousands sweat;
And thousands sail the purple sea;
And give or take the stroke of war;
Or crowd the market and bazaar;
Oft shall war end, and peace return,
And cities rise where cities burn,
Ere one man my hill shall climb,
Who can turn the golden rhyme;
Let them manage how they may,
Heed thou only Saadi's lay.
Seek the living among the dead,
Man in man is imprisoned,

Barefooted Dervish is not poor,
If fate unlock his bosom's door,
So that what his eye hath seen,

His tongue can paint as bright, as keen;
And what his tender heart hath felt,
With equal fire thy heart shall melt.
Now his memory is a den,

A sealed tomb from gods and men,
Whose rich secrets not transpire;
Speech should be like air and fire;
But to speak when he assays,
His voice is bestial and base;
Himself he heareth hiss or hoot,
And crimson shame him maketh mute;
But whom the muses smile upon
And touch with soft persuasion,

His words like a storm-wind can bring
Terror and Beauty on their wing,
In his every syllable

Lurketh nature veritable;

And though he speak in midnight dark,
In heaven, no star; on earth, no spark ;
Yet before the listener's eye

Swims the world in ecstasy,

The forest waves, the morning breaks,
The pastures sleep, ripple the lakes,
Leaves twinkle, flowers like persons be,
And life pulsates in rock or tree.
Saadi! so far thy words shall reach;
Suns rise and set in Saadi's speech.

And thus to Saadi said the Muse;
Eat thou the bread which men refuse;
Flee from the goods which from thee flee;
Seek nothing; Fortune seeketh thee.
Nor mount, nor dive; all good things keep
The midway of the eternal deep.
Wish not to fill the isles with eyes
To fetch thee birds of paradise;
On thine orchard's edge belong
All the brags of plume and song;
Wise Ali's sunbright sayings pass
For proverbs in the market-place;
Through mountains bored by regal art,
Toil whistles as he drives his cart.
Nor scour the seas, nor sift mankind,
A poet or a friend to find,

Behold, he watches at the door,
Behold his shadow on the floor.

Open innumerable doors

The heaven where unveiled Allah pours,

The flood of truth, the flood of good,

The Seraph's and the Cherub's food,

Those doors are men; the Pariah hind
Admits thee to the perfect Mind.
Seek not beyond thy cottage wall
Redeemers that can yield thee all.
While thou sittest at thy door
On the desart's yellow floor,
Listening to the grayhaired crones,
Foolish gossips, ancient drones,
Saadi! see, they rise in stature
To the height of mighty Nature,
And the secret stands revealed,
Fraudulent Time in vain concealed,
That blessed gods in servile masks
Plied for thee thy household tasks.

THE GALLERY.

[We had many things to say in this Number concerning art and its works and its workmen, but an unlooked for amount of matter of foreign contribution has constrained us, were it only through courtesy, to exclude the home-made. But we will draw one paper out of our folio, at the risk of depriving it of some of its grace by detachment from its chapter, that our Journal may not go quite without homage to the laws of Fine Art; for " Art," as Dr. Waagen writes, "is an expression of the mind, whose peculiar character cannot be supplied by anything else.”]

Ho, Amico! Stop a moment, and let me have a word or two with you. I was in Concord yesterday; and talking about pictures. W said we must have some account of the Gallery, and asked me to write it for him. But I knew myself too well to write with anything but the brush, and so they carried it by acclaim that you must do it for them.

Amico. Proh Jupiter! I do it for them! Why, my dear Pictor, I have been running away from pictures I know not how long, and they seem destined to be my bane. For my sins once upon a time I set up for a critic. I had done a great deal better to have written a book. Then I did not care whose glass was broken, and I went about decrying daubers, and preaching up art. Many were the aggrieved, many the ladies offended that their soft pictures were pronounced emphatically rather too soft; and as to the artists, it is only with the new generation that I begin to be upon speaking terms. And besides, what good did I ever do by it?

Pictor. Yes, but then you were in your youthful extravagance. "Aut hoc aut nihil" was your watchword; - you have now more patience with mediocrity?

Amico. My young friend, you call yourself a painter. Nay