That I may make thee known, with all the beauty

and the light,

And the glory never more to bless thy daughter's yearning sight!

Thy woods shall whisper in my song, thy bright streams warble by,

Thy soul flow o'er my lips again—yet once, my Sicily!

"There are blue heavens-far hence, far hence! but oh! their glorious blue !

Its very night is beautiful, with the hyacinth's deep hue!

It is above my own fair land, and round my laughing home,

And arching o'er my vintage-hills, they hang their cloudless dome,

And making all the waves as gems, that melt along

the shore,

And steeping happy hearts in joy-that now is

mine no more.

"And there are haunts in that green land-oh! who

may dream or tell,

Of all the shaded loveliness it hides in grot and dell!

By fountains flinging rainbow-spray on dark and glossy leaves,

And bowers wherein the forest-dove her nest un

troubled weaves;

The myrtle dwells there, sending round the richness of its breath,

And the violets gleam like amethysts, from the dewy moss beneath.

"And there are floating sounds that fill the skies thro' night and day,

Sweet sounds! the soul to hear them faints in

dreams of heaven away!

They wander thro' the olive-woods, and o'er the

shining seas,

They mingle with the orange-scents that load the

sleepy breeze;

Lute, voice, and bird, are blending there;-it were

a bliss to die,

As dies a leaf, thy groves among, my flowery Sicily!

"I may not thus depart-farewell! yet no, my country! no!

Is not love stronger than the grave? I feel it must be so !

My fleeting spirit shall o'ersweep the mountains and

the main,

And in thy tender starlight rove, and thro' thy woods again.

Its passion deepens-it prevails!-I break my chain-I come

To dwell a viewless thing, yet blest-in thy sweet air, my home!"

And her pale arms dropp'd the ringing lyre,
There came a mist o'er her eye's wild fire,

And her dark rich tresses, in many a fold,

Loos'd from their braids, down her bosom roll'd.

For her head sank back on the rugged wall,

A silence fell o'er the warrior's hall;

She had pour'd out her soul with her song's last tone; The lyre was broken, the minstrel gone!

IVAN THE CZAR.

"Ivan le Terrible, etant dejà devenu vieux, assiégoit Novogorod. Les Boyards, le voyant affoibli, lui démandèrent s'il ne voulait pas donner le commandement de l'assaut à son fils. Sa fureur fut si grande à cette proposition, que rien ne put l'appaiser; son fils se prosterna à ses pieds; il le repoussa avec un coup d'une telle violence, que deux jours après le malheureux en mourut. Le père, alors au desespoir, devint indifferent à la guerre comme au pouvoir, et ne survécut que peu de mois à son fils.”—Dix Annees d'Exil, par MADAME DE STAEL.