For her, though God has made her gentle and endearing,
She will go on her way distraught and without hearing
These murmurings of love that round her steps ascend,
Piously faithful still unto her austere duty,
Will say, when she shall read these lines full of her beauty,
"Who can this woman be?" and will not comprehend.




A LEAF

FROM MY PARIS NOTE-BOOK.

BY H.T. TUCKERMAN.


Fresh from Italy, we enter the gallery of the Louvre with a feeling that
it is but a grand prolongation of the glorious array of pictured and
sculptured trophies, scattered in such memorable luxuriance, through that
chosen land of art; but the sensation is that of delightful surprise when
we have but recently explored the dim chambers of the National Gallery, or
obtained formal access to a private British collection. To cross the now
magnificent hall of Apollo, with its grand proportions flooded by a
cloudless sun, expands the mind and brightens the vision for their feast
of beauty. Here too, a magic improvement has been recently wrought, and
the architectural renovation lends new effect to the ancient treasures, so
admirably preserved and arranged. I stood long at one of the windows and
looked down upon the Seine; it was thence that the people were fired upon
at the massacre of St. Bartholomew; there rose, dark and fretted, the