and a celebrated picture of the Last Judgment, by Lucas Van Leyden. In another are some fine pictures, illustrative of incidents during the siege. A large one by Van Bree, representing the Self-devotion of Vander Werf, is exceeded by few historical paintings of the contemporary masters, either in the selection of a subject, or in splendor of execution.

I made diligent inquiry here for the shop-board and other relics of John of Leyden, the ferocious leader of the Anabaptists in the sixteenth century, which are said to be preserved in the Stadhuis of his native city; but I did not succeed in finding them, if indeed they still exist. The female who exhibits the curiosities of the Stadhuis, told me that she and her mother had together been in charge of it half a century; and although strangers often inquired for these things, she had never been able to discover where they were. My guide, a very intelligent man, who had attended strangers in this capacity for five years, confirmed this statement; adding that Germans who visited Leyden were particularly curious on this subject. He had often conducted them to the house in which the tailor-king had lived; but all their researches for any relics of him at the Stadhuis had proved unsuccessful.

Leyden contains of course many other public buildings, but none of very great interest to the traveller. In going from this city to Haarlem, I took the diligence, which differs in form somewhat from our stage-coach. It contains, like our public coaches, but one apartment, in which the seats are so arranged that every passenger faces the horses. The sides and seats are all neatly stuffed and covered; but the carriage has not the light and tasteful aspect of ours, although it is equally removed from the heavy bulk of the French diligence. It was drawn by three horses abreast, and managed as usual by two persons, the postillion and a conductor. Each place is numbered, and of course you buy a seat to which you have an exclusive right for the journey, there being no privileged places for ladies, as in this country. It starts precisely at the hour fixed, with undeviating punctuality; and therefore a stranger need be acquainted with the absurd usage which prevails in Holland, of causing the hour to be struck more than once. Thus, at every half hour it is customary to strike the hour which is coming, in defiance of convenience and commor. sense. But if the diligence is exact in setting out, it is equally faithful to the hour of arrival; and therefore in both respects the punctuality deserves to be commended.

The post road from Leyden to Haarlem passes through the villages of Sassenheim, of Lisse, and of Hillegom, and shows to the traveller some of the best parts of the Rhynland. In pleasant weather, it forms a ride altogether enchanting. Near Leyden there is a vast number of pretty villas and farm-houses of the better sort; and farther on, the country is rich with cultivation. The road is not so wide nor so straight as the avenues in the vicinity of the Hague; but it is more natural in appearance, and quite as pretty, winding just enough to be diversified. Tracts of meadow and pasturage are seen covered with large herds of cows, or fields of waving grain, ripe for the sickle. Generally the fields are separated from the road and from one another by verdant hedges, which are seldom left to grow naturally, but are

trained and clipped into every variety which fancy can invent. Occasionally a wide ditch forms the boundary of the road, or divides the lands of different proprietors; in which case a row of trees generally extends along the line of the ditch. Indeed, trees are planted by the wayside nearly the whole distance, and sometimes, where the road is narrow, their branches meet over the middle, so as to cover it with a beautiful green canopy of leaves. As you approach the small towns or villages, you find the rows of trees more carefully planted, with a well-trodden foot-path under them; and so it is near the country-seats of wealthy individuals. Sometimes you pass amid extensive fields of wheat or barley, or of potatoes and various garden vegetables, contiguous to the very road; at others a long range of meadow ends in a grove of trees, with here and there buildings, and perhaps an antique looking steeple peeping out from the bosoms of the dense foliage.

As we came nearer to Haarlem, the beauty of the grounds and the number of villas and neat country-seats increased. The Haarlemmeer, or lake, was visible on the right, animated with small vessels or boats. Nothing, indeed, in a champaign country, can be more beautiful than the environs of Haarlem. Charming villages lie on all sides of it; Heemstede, on the borders of the lake; Bennebroek, near which is the estate of Hartekamp, where Linnæus lived when he devised his botanical system; Overveen, and especially Bloemendaal, in the downs to the eastward of the city, affording fine views of the North Sea, and the rich lands extending from thence to the Haarlem-meer and the Y. Just without the city is the famous Wood of Haarlem, before entering which, you pass the various grounds of Meerburg, Groenendaal, Bosch en Hoven, Eynden Hout, with its two beautiful sphinxes, and other villas, but all yielding to the palace called Hope's Pavilion. This princely residence stands on the right of the road, among the gay walks of the wood. It was built by Mr. Hope, the head of the great banking house at Amsterdam, and sold by him to Louis Bonaparte; since which it has become a domain of the state, and is now occupied by the princess dowager of Orange.

Proceeding a little farther, you cross the extensive walks which have been laid out around the ramparts, and passing a handsome gate, find yourself in the city of Haarlem, which I shall endeavor to place before the reader in another number.

MEMORY.

A FRAGMENT FROM AN UNPUBLISHED

POEM.

As the soft shower at summer eve descends,
And, with fair arch, the painted rainbow bends;
When rolling clouds flit o'er the twilight scene,
And deeper tinge the landscape's freshened green;
Mark the bright tints of soft reflected light,
That gild the tempest, o'er its brow of night;
Thus MEMORY brightens, with divinest hue,
The gloomiest scenes of retrospective view;
And mildly shining on a world of strife,
The lovely rainbow to the storms of life,
Can, if mild Virtue but sit smiling there,
Gild e'en the darkest clouds of deep despair.

With hearts long-linked, their fates are newly bound:
Love's port is gained, all storms of courtship o'er;
The chill of pride, the sharp and jealous wound

Of rivals' favored eyes, so galling sore,

The rack of absence following smiles before,

The idly-anxious day, the feverish night,

Now lash the billows of their breasts no more:

Calm as a level lake, the currents bright,

Deep, clear, and brimming, sleep in dreams of golden light.

Oh! softest ray that cheers benighted earth!
The moon among our twinkling starry beams:
The sweetest flower is marriage, that found birth
Within the rich first garden's wide extremes.
Young hearts, Passaic, like thy mountain streams,
In frolic morn shout on awhile and leap;

Till tired at length of sports and noisy screams,
They drop into each other's arms asleep,

And wake like thee more fit to tug with danger's steep.

But danger's steep by these is rapture found:
Their eyes are fed with such indwelling light,
That the rent rocks and dizzy cliffs around,
Seem smiling gardens to their happy sight.

Love makes the rough place smooth-illumes the bright,
New-gilds the sun, and even the rose makes red;
And from all tears and vapors, by his might,
Gives out such hues as on yon mists are spread:
See! how they cling and smile - have I not truly said?

DENHAM.

DRYDEN.

His was the mighty sway of eloquence;
His throne the pulpit, whence his power he dealt;
Strange, mastering power, of energy intense,
That more than music knows to rouse and melt:
'Twas not the strength of reason in him dwelt-
His thoughts, when written, failed - but oh! when heard,
All hearts, like seas the tempest's breath that felt,
Quick into wild tumultuous life were stirred,

Then rolled in billowy waves, submissive to his word.

How did that voice our bosom-tides upraise-
How, drunk with music, on its tones we hung,
When met our freedom's stormy birth to praise,
Of all our fathers' woes his faltering tongue
Told the sad tale; and tears like rain-drops sprung
Down droughty cheeks, long strangers to their flow :
But when with trumpet-note he told the young
Theirs for defence henceforth must be the blow,
How did our spirits leap, and long to find a foe!

But hark!-he speaks - he calls his happy bride:
'Look up! sweet love the moon-set hour is nigh,
The pallid queen, long sick, at length has died,
And stars, ashamed of rival brilliance, fly;
For the young east is winning every eye:
See! yon rose cloud that sails so sweetly there,
Bound like a ransomed spirit to the sky:

Up the blue deep it fades-it melts in air!

Such be thy gentle fate, when death no more will spare!'

The drowsy morn is stirring from his dream -
Lo! on his cheek the waking blushes play,

Through lash of trees now peeps his trembling beam,

Now opes his awful eye upon the day!

From peak to peak, bright rushing far away,

The scattering sunbeams chase the flying gloom;
Signals of light, with telegraphic sway,

To spire and hill-top, met with as they roam,
News-telling, that the king of light and life is come!

'He comes! far-flashing in his car of gold! Waken, ye clouds! put on your crimson dies; Ye mists! haste up the hill-side to behold!

Ye winds! call up the slumbering leaves with sighs:

Rouse, droning water-falls! salute the skies,

And wreathe fresh rainbows round your brows of spray!

Ye beasts!-birds! insects! -all awake! arise!

To greet the coming of the lord of day:

Thou, too! oh, man, shouldst wake- but wake to praise and pray!

'God of this wondrous scene! whose iron hand
Tore ope the lion-jaws of chasms- this strait
Of warring waters, this high mountain-land,
Yon flaming globe, all tell me thou art great:
And oh with all my raptures, this dear mate
To share and sweeten, shows me thou art good.
I cannot thus unthankful bear thy weight
Of unbought bounties: oh! then let this flood
Of happy tears say all my failing accents should!'

Long do they kneel, and pour their silent prayers,
Awed by the roar of falls, and dizzy brow
Wheron they rest - still showering April tears:
When hearts are full, the eyes will overflow,

Be the deep burthen one of joy or wo:

But soon those eye-born dews the breezes drink,
Sooner than those which on the mosses glow:
And now he leads her to the slippery brink,

Where ponderous tides headlong plunge down the horrid chink.

VOL. XV.

Shuddered the solid frame-work of the rock,
Down the black gulf the waters, crushed, amazed,
Shivered to snowy atoms by the shock,

Shrieked dreadful: that her giddy head, half-crazed,
Hid in his sheltering bosom while he gazed.
Strong with the scent of beaten flint, the spray
Rushed like a wind, and high in air was raised;
Drenching the lovers on its drizzling way:
And now it soars a cloud, and glitters in the day.

'Ope thy sweet timid eyes!' he cries: 'behold
One smile of peace mid all the discord's roar !
A dreamy arch of azure, flame, and gold,
Now bridges wide the gulf from shore to shore :
Heaven's early mark of promise, that no more
The ruin past the wearied earth should wear :
Proof to the stream its trial-storm is o'er;
The seal of God set o'er the waters there,
To stamp the act as his, and bid them not despair.

'Nor need they groan; soon, guided by his hand,
Through rocky perils to yon flowery vale,
Long shall they journey through a pleasant land;
While freighted barks upon their bosom sail :
And briny tides their welcome face shall hail,
Sent half-way up the coming guests to greet:
Soon at their sea-home, whence they did exhale,
The kindred streams once more in peace shall meet :

Oh! thus through storms to rest, our God will guide our feet!'

Now down the hill-side, o'er the valley-bridge,
Their venturous feet the wildest paths pursue;
They cross the village; near the southern ridge,
They pass the gap, whence, startling to the view,
Tall cliffs wide-parted brightly bursting through,
The whole wild beauty of the fall is seen:

Gray rocks, black pools, and foam of snowy hue,
And far away, the cloven crags between,

The fleecy waters curve, with amber striped, and green.

They seek cool shelter from the sunny glow,
Where trees, leaf-thatched, an emerald roof have made,
Whose mottled shadow spots the turf below:
For quivering heat and dazzling glare pervade
All save the woodland's ever-evening shade:
There by the bank they rest, above the foam,
On tufted moss, thick sown with blossoms, laid;
Around, the laurel showers its rosy bloom,
Wreathes the bare-headed crags, and lights the forest-gloom.

Clear-throated birds sing loving songs, and leap,
Sweetest of all, wood-robins' bell-notes peal;
While dainty bees, that under flower-bells peep,
Give honied sounds for honied sweets they steal.
Coolness from streams, with odors from the vale,
The breezes bring, and yield them with a kiss:
Songs, odors, blossoms, breezes, all they feel
All breathe of Eden, and impart its bliss,
Wild bliss! like that too tasted o'er a dread abyss!

Oh Love!-no starry jewels of the night,
No breezy blessing of the balmy spring,
No thrill that gives to mortal sense delight,
Such dreamy rapture as young Love, can bring,
When first he fans us with his downy wing:
Love on!-love on! young revellers, while ye may!
Life o'er your dim, benighted path can fling
No light more glorious than his moonlight ray,
Till love immortal breaks, and blends it with the day!

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