As on the jag of a mountain crag,

Which an earthquake rocks and swings,

An eagle alit, one moment may sit

In the light of its golden wings;

And when sunset may breathe from the lit sea beneath, Its ardours of rest and of love,

And the crimson pall of eve may fall

From the depth of heaven above:

With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest,
As still as a brooding dove.

That orbéd maiden with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the Moon,

Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,
By the midnight breezes strewn;

And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
Which only the angels hear,

May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,
The stars peep behind her and peer;

And I laugh to see them whirl and flee

Like a swarm of golden bees.

When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,
Till the calm river, lakes, and seas,

Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,
Are each paved with the moon and these.

I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone,
And the moon's with a girdle of pearl

The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim,
When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
From a cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape

Over a torrent sea,

Sunbeam proof, I hang like a roof,

The mountains its columns be,

The triumphal arch through which I march,
With hurricane, fire, and snow

When the power of the air are chained to my chair,
Is the million-coloured bow,

The sphere-fire above, its soft colours wove,
While the moist earth was laughing below,

I am the daughter of the earth and water,
And the nursling of the sky;

I

pass through the

pores of the ocean and shores;

I change, but I cannot die;

For after the rain, when, with never a stain,

The pavilion of heaven is bare,

And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams,

Build up the blue dome of air,

I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,

And out of the caverns of rain,

Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I rise and upbuild it again.—Shelley.

MICHAEL ANGELO.

LORENZO the Magnificent reigned over Florence. In his palace and gardens was a fine collection of antique marbles, busts, and statues, which the princely owner converted into an academy for the use of young artists. Michael Angelo was one of the first, who, having. obtained the reluctant consent of his father, was received into this new academy. This was a great gratification to the youth. He had hitherto devoted himself chiefly to drawing, but the sight of the many splendid works of art in the Medicean gardens determined him to turn his attention to sculpture. He was then not quite sixteen.

Whatever Michael Angelo did, he tried to do well. With the fervour and the energy natural to his character, he now began first to model in clay, and then to copy in marble, some of the works of art before him. They were surprising productions for one so young.

Having found one day the statue of a laughing faun, considerably mutilated and without a head, the youthful artist resolved to try, if he could restore to it what was wanting. He succeeded admirably. Lorenzo, who

often visited the gardens, was much struck with this display of genius, and inquired whose work it was.

"It is executed by one of the great painter's pupils," was the reply. "He and Granacci were the two he deemed most worthy of entering your academy, Signor. His name is Michael Angelo."

“I should like to see the youth," observed Lorenzo, who stood gazing at the statue; "there is great talent and genius here.

Michael Angelo was summoned.

"So, Angelo," said Lorenzo the Magnificent, "I perceive you have a taste for sculpture? That head does you credit."

Michael's dark eyes glittered. "It is a noble art!" he replied with enthusiasm. "By allowing me the honour of entering these gardens, excellent Signor, you have, as it were, raised a new spirit within me."

Lorenzo smiled. A great lover of the art of sculpture himself, he was pleased with the youth's evident devotion to it.

"Do you prefer it then to painting?" he asked.

"I do," replied Michael Angelo. "It is to me so much more wonderful and sublime."

"I see you have not exactly imitated the original in that head," observed Lorenzo; "the lips are smoother, and you have shewn the teeth. But," he added with a smile, " you should have remembered, Angelo, that old men seldom exhibit a complete set of teeth."

He passed on; and the young artist, who paid no less respect to the judgment than to the rank of Lorenzo, was no sooner left to himself, than he struck out one of the teeth, giving to the part the appearance of its having been lost by age.

On his next visit, Lorenzo, seeing this, and equally delighted with the disposition as with the genius of his young pupil, at once determined to take him under his especial patronage. "Angelo," he said, "your perseverance and improvement merit my regard. In order to give you every advantage, I am willing to receive you into my own service, undertake the entire care of your

education, and bring you up in my palace as my son. What say you?"

What could Michael Angelo say to such a generous, flattering proposal! With heartfelt gratitude he thanked his noble patron, and then spoke of his father.

"I will see your father on the subject," said Lorenzo. "I trust he will not object to my wishes."

He sent for the old man, and gained his consent to the plan on condition, that he himself should receive an office under government. Accordingly, Michael Angelo was lodged in the palace of the Medici, where he remained for three years. He was ever treated with paternal kindness by Lorenzo, and had the advantage of associating with the first literary characters of the age.

But Michael Angelo, with all his genius, was not of a very amiable disposition. His temper was proud and haughty; his speech too often contemptuous and sarcastic. He felt his own great powers of mind, and too frequently indulged in satire towards those who were not so gifted as himself.

Lorenzo the Magnificent died, and Michael Angelo, thrown on his own resources, studied more diligently than ever. Secluded, temperate, and frugal in his habits, stern and unbending in his character, he suffered nothing to divert his mind from that on which it was set-his improvement in the art of sculpture.

About this time there was some sensation caused amongst the lovers of the fine arts in Rome, by the arrival in that city of a statue of extraordinary beauty. It was a Sleeping Cupid in marble; and great was the admiration bestowed upon it.

"It is a genuine antique,” said one grave connoisseur in such things; "there is no mistaking it."

"Certainly not," observed another; "how infinitely superior it is to anything which art in this day is capable of producing!"

"It was found in a vineyard near Florence, I understand," said a third; "a peasant, while digging, came upon this exquisite proof of ancient skill and genius.

It is a pity the arm has been broken off. The Duchess of Mantua much desires it tor her cabinet, I hear; but the Cardinal San Giorgio has already purchased it at a high price. He is charmed with its beauty."

"My friends," said a nobleman, as he entered the hall with hasty steps, "what do you think I have heard just now? that this 'real antique' which has so delighted us all, is the work of a young man of two-and-twenty, residing at Florence!"

The group round the statue actually started with surprise.

"Is it possible?" they exclaimed; "has one in our day executed this splendid work? It is marvellous! Are you sure you are not imposed upon?"

"Quite sure. The young sculptor has produced the missing arm, and given undoubted proofs of his veracity. The cardinal has invited him to Rome immediately." "And what may be the name of this young man?" "His name is Michael Angelo."

During his first residence in the imperial city, Michael Angelo, surrounded by so many beautiful remains of antiquity, applied to his studies with unceasing energy and increasing diligence. He executed several works, which added greatly to his reputation, particularly a group called the Pietà, which is now in the church of St. Peter's, at Rome.

A little time after the Pietà had been fixed in its place, the young artist went one afternoon to consider the effect of his work. As he stood before it, surveying it with a critical yet partial eye, and with a consciousness that he should yet do greater things than that, two strangers entered the church. Struck with admiration at the beautiful group presented to their view, they expressed, with Italian warmth and fervour, their great and unqualified approbation.

"What an exquisite work!" cried one. "Truly it is a masterpiece! What form! what proportion! what excellent grouping! I never saw anything to compare with it!"

"Wonderful!" said the other, after contemplating it