ack, dazzled and awe-stricken as the blaze of rich light met their
unhallowed gaze. Again they went forward, and then what saw they?
Surrounded by the sheen of jewels--glowing in the gorgeous light of
the diamond, the chrysolite, the beryl, the ruby, they found an image
fashioned but of common clay, while extended at its feet lay the
skeleton of the Fane-builder.

Worn with toil, and pain, and disappointment, he had perished at the
feet of his idol. It may be that the scorn of the world had opened his
eyes to behold of what mean materials was shapen the divinity he had
so honored. It may be that the glitter of the gems he had heaped
around it had perpetuated the delusion which had first charmed him,
and he had thus been saved the last, worst pang of wasted idolatry. It
matters not. He died--as all such men must die--in sorrow and in
loneliness.

But the fane he has reared is as indestructible as the soul of him who
lifted its lofty summit to the skies. "Time, the Avenger," has
redeemed the builder's fame; and even the men of his own nation now
believe that a prophet and a seer once dwelt among them.

When that great city shall have shared the fortunes of the Babylons
and Ninevahs of olden time, that snow-white fane, written all over
with characters of truth, and graven with images of beauty, will yet
endure; and men of new times and new states shall learn lessons of
holier and loftier existence from a pilgrimage to that glorious
temple, built by spirit-toil, and consecrated by spirit-worship and
spirit-suffering.

DREAM-MUSIC; OR, THE SPIRIT-FLUTE.

A BALLAD.

BY FRANCES S. OSGOOD.

There--Pearl of Beauty! lightly press,
With yielding form, the yielding sand;
And while you lift the rosy shells,
Within your dear and dainty hand,

Or toss them to the heedless waves.
That reck not how your treasures shine,
As oft you waste on careless hearts
Your fancies, touched with light divine,

I'll sing a lay--more wild than gay--
The story of a magic flute;
And as I sing, the waves shall play
An ordered tune, the song to suit.

In silence flowed our grand old Rhine;
For on his breast a picture burned,
The loveliest of all scenes that shine
Where'er his glorious course has turned.

That radiant morn the peasants saw
A wondrous vision rise in light,
They gazed, with blended joy and awe--
A castle crowned the