Gay yellow buttercups, bright purple
heath-flowers, and dark bilberries, vary the general violet tint, while
the tiny stems of these gentle plants spring from rich tufts of emerald
moss, and are pushed aside by the spray-like leaves of the wild fern. The
hum of bees imparts a half busy, half drowsy sound to the scene, while far
down the long easy slopes are little valleys, through which trickle
talkative brooks, that sometimes peep between the low foliage on their
margins, and are the next moment lost to sight behind the crowding bushes.
It is no wonder that Charlotte and her sisters loved their quiet walks
along the moors.
The next day I bade farewell to Haworth. It is now frequently included in
the route of American tourists, by many of whom the memory of Charlotte
Bronte is as fondly cherished as by her own countrymen and women; and
Haworth is no longer the quiet, unknown Yorkshire hamlet that it was a few
years ago.
THORWALDSEN'S CHRIST.
BY THE REV. E.A. WASHBURN.
Silent stood the youthful sculptor
Gazing on the breathing stone
From the chaos of the marble
Into godlike being grown.
But a gloom was on his forehead,
In his eye a drooping glance,
And at length the heavy sorrow
From the lip found utterance:
"Holy Art! thy shapes of beauty
Have I carved, but ne'er before
Reached my thought a faultless image,
Still unbodied would it soar;
Still the pure unfound Ideal
Would ensoul a fairer shrine;
In my victory I perish,
And no loftier aim is mine.
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