A Mozart. FROM THE BUST IN MUSIC HALL, BOSTON. MOZART. By Zitella Cocke. S through the leafy close, the crystal shine Of streamlet purling on its way is seen, Nor in its mazes down the clust'ring green Of interlacing boughs and pendent vine, Nor 'neath the shadows of the day's decline Is hid, so doth thy melody's bright sheen, Flash through close harmony's inwoven screen; And well we call thy matchless strains divine! Who lists, shall live in Golden Age once more, Shall catch the voice of sweet Arcadian lutes, Behold, as erst, glad nymphs dance on the shore, To tabor's sound and dithyrambic flutes, Hear Philomel within the moonlit grove, And tuneful shepherd piping to his love. H Mendelssohn. FROM THE BUST IN MUSIC HALL, BOSTON. MENDELSSOHN. By Zitella Cocke. ARK! hear the lark, bold prodigal, elate And jubilant, his wealth of music fling To listening vales, that all-expectant wait The thrilling touch of rosy-fingered Spring! Thus hath she touched thy heart, O Mendelssohn, Till of her life and beauty thou art fain, And all her winning witcheries of tone, Her coy caprices, and her joyous strain Are thine. Lift but thy magic wand, and lo! Queen Mab and all her fairy court shall trip To chorus of bright waterfalls, and flow Of streams melodious 'neath the rhythmic dip Of elfin oars, while in enchanted boat, On sounds mellifluous, we dream and float! HE passenger upon the little black steamers of the Chirket-i-Hairié the "Association for Promoting the Public Welfare" - may not be provided with the most sumptuous accommodations, but he is furnished with the most sumptuous feast for the eyes that any fifteen-mile stretch of land and water upon the earth's surface can afford. The partisans of the Hudson and of the Rhine, of the Danube with its Gates of Iron, and of the Trossachs, or the English Lakes, and those again for whom the Bay of Naples epitomizes all the loveliness of earth and sea and sky, may protest against such a claim. But that is because they have never lived upon the shores of the Bosphorus, nor felt the spell which exhales with its evening vapors and morning mists, from its wooded heights and imperial palace-gardens. It is a spell compounded of natural beauty and romantic charm, into which are woven graceful myths of classic antiquity and sombre tragedies of mediæval Byzantium and Turkish Stamboul, marshalling before us the ghosts of the Argonauts and the Achaemenidæ, of Constantine and Justinian and Bayazid the Thunderer and Soliman the magnificent. Under its magic the beautiful shores and sparkling waters of these straits grow more entrancing with each day's contemplation of their picturesque wildness and luxurious splendor. The shores are fringed with marble palaces and rambling mansions with terraced gardens, and in the embrace of their steep valleys lie the quaintest of wooden villages, whose sesquipedalian names greet, at every landing, the ears of the passenger by the boats of the company with the philanthropic name,- Dolma Bagtché and Arnaoutkieüy, Konskoundjouk and Beyler-Bey and Khandilli succeeding one another in sonorous euphony as the boat touches now at the shore of Europe, and now of Asia. At each landing a motley and polyglot throng embarks and disembarks, and the crowded deck presents a scene of the most animated and various interest. Its coffee-sipping and chattering multitude salute the ear with a very Babel of confused tongues, and the nostrils with |