"The vapors linger round the height;

They meet-and soon must vanish: One hour is theirs, nor more is mine,

Sad thought, which I would banish,
But that I know, where'er I go,

Thy genuine image, Yarrow,
Will dwell with me,-to heighten Joy

And cheer my mind in Sorrow."

N I Ꭺ Ꮐ Ꭺ Ꭱ Ꭺ.

F

V.

NIAGARA.

AUGUST.

THE rapids before Niagara are not of water only. The cataract is the centre of a vortex of travel-a Maelström which you scarcely suspect until you are swimming round in its intense swiftness and feel that you are drawn nearer and closer, every moment, to an awful and unimagined presence.

The summer-bird of a traveller who skims up the Hudson dippingly, wending Niagara-ward, if he has never seen the Falls, and has heard of them all his life, loiters along his way, quite unimpressed by the anticipation of his bourne, whose image has lost much of its grandeur in his mind by the household familiarity of the name. It is somewhat so with Switzerland after a residence in Europe. You approach half languidly, more than half suspicious that the fixed stare of the world has melted the glaciers, and the snow sifted along