Lonely the temples stand, and take their hue O would the water burst its marble cell, O'er its broad banks, and bid the desert smile! For such the stream that now from Horeb's mount, And such the stream that glads the courts above, This is the stream, all others are accurst Who quaffs its wave shall live; who spurn it, dies. 1 The three fountains are reported to have miraculously sprung forth at the place where S. Paul was beheaded. The absurd legend is perpetuated by a group of three churches and a monastery erected on the spot, which, with a few trees, form a picturesque object in the midst of low barren hills, about three miles from Rome. Under the marble pavement of the Church of S. Paul are the fountains, of which the devout are invited to partake. THE TIBER. FOR WHAT IS YOUR LIFE-IT IS EVEN AS A VAPOUR THAT APPEARETH FOR A LITTLE TIME, AND THEN VANISHETH AWAY.-JAMES IV. 14. I SAW,-when bright the gallant sun No pilgrim with his scallop-shell, Nor stately priests in scarlet hose, The flush of youth was on their brow, And sounds of jocund merriment Upon the breeze were flung. And one I marked of all the rest, With cheek all bloom, and eye all bright, She skimmed along the brimming shore, And gaily cheered her young compeers They passed, swift as the rushing wind- The song and laugh soon died away, The air around seemed full of joy, I cast aside a weight of care, When, lo, a tramp of horse! I turn- In other mood than forth they rode,' Upon the brow a deepened gloom— O where is she, the lady bright, Where is she, and her prancing steed? Woes me! she was, and she is not- > All reckless as she urged her steed, Thrice she arose from out the flood, But vain her cries, her struggles vain, With sheets of wave he folds her round, In his remorseless clasp, Bubbling his sullen joy to feel The captive in his grasp. Then lays her on the river's bed, All hushed her voice-all pale her cheek— O what an eve of sorrow sets Upon a morn so gay! Whole years of weeping may not wash One moment's woe away. Ashamed that, in a passing trance, Earth is a vale of tears, I said, Heav'n knows nor sigh nor tear- There is no sorrow here! The above refers to the affecting death of Miss Bathurst, who was drowned in the Tiber a few years ago, under circumstances which may well excuse, in the mind of an Englishman, a brief reverie on the banks of the river. H |