The Little Dell. O solitude, triste et tranquille! OLEFUL was the land, Barren, bleak, and wide; Nothing look'd with love; All was dingy brown; The very skies above Seem'd to sulk and frown. Plodding sick and sad, Weary day on day ; Searching, never glad, Many a miry way; Poor existence lagg'd In this barren place; While the seasons dragg'd Slowly o'er its face. Spring, to sky and ground, A valley, like a nest! Guarded with a spell Sure it must have been- This little faery dell Which I had never seen. Open to the blue, Green banks hemm'd it round; A rillet wander'd through With a tinkling sound; Briars among the rocks A tangled arbour made; Primroses in flocks Grew beneath their shade. Merry birds a few, Creatures wildly tame, Perch'd and sung and flew; Tawny fieldmice came; Ants among the moss Hasten'd here and there; Butterflies across Danced through sunlit air. There I often redd, Sung alone, or dream'd; Blossoms overhead, Where the west wind stream'd. he Blacksmith of Antwerp. N an autumnal evening, in a narrow, obscure, but picturesque street of the old town of Antwerp, more than three hundred years ago, a blacksmith's forge was throwing out bright sudden flashes of light, which cast at intervals a ruddy glow on the faces of the workmen, whose strong Flemish arms were making the anvil ring with their sturdy blows. The scene was an animated one; the noise and the warmth within the precincts of the forge presenting a marked contrast to the gloom of the ill-lighted and unfrequented street, where a drizzling rain was beginning to fall. Attracted by the influence of the light within, some idlers had assembled at the entrance of this swarthy region under the shelter of its projecting roof, and, as far as the noise would permit, carried on a desultory conversation with the men who were at work. Amongst this group was a young girl of about seventeen or eighteen years of age, accompanied by her maid, her fair face and sunny hair just visible under the black hood and mantilla, worn in the Spanish fashion, prevalent at that period in the Low Countries. She stood at the door hesitating to advance and reluctant to withdraw. As the sparks flew from the anvil like rockets on a birthday night, and a bright flickering light illuminated for an instant the whole interior of the forge, she cast a hasty glance into its inmost recesses. Having done so once or twice she at last put down her veil, and making a sign to her companion, was moving away. At that instant an old man, one of the most inveterate gossipmongers of the town, happened to be entering. Her first impulse was to wrap her mantilla more closely around her, and to avoid his notice; but on second thoughts she turned back, and asked him, "Has Quintin Matsys been here to-day?" Quintin Matsys, maiden? Yes, indeed, he was here this morning I happened to be passing this way as the town. clock was striking eleven, and, observing that a crowd had gathered round the door of the forge, I stopped to inquire what was the matter, and I heard that Quintin Matsys had been taken ill and fainted, after spending some hours at work at the anvil." 66 66 Again!" ejaculated the maiden, wringing her hands. “It is but two days ago that he was carried home in a dead swoon." . "Of course he was; and how should it be otherwise? The stripling is too weak for this sort of work. He will kill himself; there can be no doubt of it. Dr. Armen has said so ever since last Michaelmas, when he sickened with the ague. But the lad is obstinate. It is always the same story. He |