this!  But there was a pause in the music, and anon the magic bells of the Golden City were heard chiming in harp-like notes, which dropped upon the ear, small, distinct, and purely brilliant as the melodious tears of the Renealmia into the near bosom of the waters.  A rush of fervent feeling and exhaustless poetry bore upon my yet subdued spirit;—­resistless, but pleasant sadness enwrapt my soul;—­yes! an unearthly and delicious mournfulness it was, more precious far than the transient sparklings and flashes of unalloyed mirth.  But, alas! inadequate are words to convey an idea of the heavenly sensations—­love, awe, sweet melancholy, divine joy, and unspeakable devotion—­which then struggled for ascendancy in my softened, purified soul!  An odorous, strong wind swept past me—­in it was the sound of a rushing multitude who trod not upon earth, but cut the air alone; and in it, too, with the murmur of voices, was that of many instruments, touched only by the breeze.

“Hark!” cried my exquisite companion, “they pass to meet, and to welcome, to honour, to felicitate, and to crown, a Fairy emancipated from mortal toil; and those bells, all tones of which speak so eloquently of immortal peace and life—­those liquid bells, at once so mysteriously sad and so blessed, send forth, in token of gratulation, their charmed songs.  But hearken! for thou, O mortal! art permitted to hear the lay of welcome and victory chanted by heavenly essences, upon the arrival in this glorious region of our dear companion, who shall depart from it no more!”

Thereupon ensued a delicious burst of young, glad voices, and rich, sweet instruments; but, as a shadow to reality, as man to those immortal and spotless beings, so to their glorious Paean is the subsequent faint memory of

THE ELFIN TRIUMPHAL SONG.

  Beautiful! beautiful!—­On they float
  Those lyre-like bells—­a soul in each note,
  A tongue in each tone of the elfin chime,
  To carol the bliss of our fadeless clime.

  Beautiful! beautiful!—­halcyon rest
  Breathe they to the weary, woe-worn breast;
  Lost in their song is the dream of Earth’s dree,
  Companion dear! and they’re singing for thee.

  Beautiful! beautiful!—­thou shalt feel
  Their eloquent music from thee steal
  Those darkling thoughts, that should mournfully twine
  With the light, the life, and the joy—­now thine.

  Beautiful! beautiful!—­each glad bell
  Sings to thy soul—­’Thou hast borne thee well: 
  The toil, the strife, and the tempest are o’er,
  And thy rest is won—­on the Deathless Shore.’

M.L.B.

* * * * *

SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.

* * * * *

MR. HUNT, M.P.  FOR PRESTON.

(From Speakers and Speeches in Parliament, in the New Monthly Magazine.)