shadows begin to lengthen over the plains.
There is therefore no radiation either at the first
or last quarters, nor during all the time that the
shadows cast by peaks and hills are visible to
us. The principal radiating mountains in the
moon are Tycho, Copernicus, Kepler, and
Aristarchus; but by far the most important, and
the one which excites the greatest admiration,
is Tycho.

From this majestic centre there start, in all
directions, immense rays, more than a hundred
in number, which extend over almost half the
moon's southern hemisphere. They attain their
greatest development in the direction of the
east, the north-cust, and the north. One of
them, sensibly directed towards the cast, reaches
the circus of Neander at a distance of nearly
seven hundred and fifty miles. Below it, is a
ray of prodigious length, which traverses the
whole ot the mountainous region, stretches over
the Sea of Nectar, and stops at the foot of the
Pyrenees, after traversing a distance of more
than nine hundred miles. Towards the north-
west, the rays which spring from Tycho extend
beyond the mountainous country quite into the
midst of the Sea of Clouds. One of them in that
direction is especially remarkable, advancing
nearly four hundred miles, as far as the circus
of Bouillaud. Its breadth is even more striking
than its length, producing the effect of a
luminous furrow, whose edges are raised, and
whose middle is hollow like a cradle.

FORGIVEN.

FAST from the land of gold the good ship bore us,
While the blue distance ebbed in silver mist;
The sunset, like a dove's neck, changed before as,
In hues of sapphire, gold, aud amethyst,
That went and came,
Surged into shade, or melted into flame.

"We had been wed three summers. I had ta'en
A helpmeet more for use than love or passion;
Our marriage days had passed in common fashion,
Nor sweet nor bitter, neither joy nor pain.
She was my wife, I knew, and nothing more,
A labourer hired to pick up coin, and toil:
Such wives were common on the young crude soil
We sailed from, hailing for an English shore.
And in the daily tumult when my brain
Was busied in the earnest act of gain,
I simply saw she helped the household store
And did her duty, lending labour meet;
I had no time to find her incomplete.
But when the toil was ended, and my place
Was emptied in the wild imperfect land,
I would have had a gentler face,
A purer duty and a softer hand,
To hush the happy tumult in my breast,
And beautify the sense of well-earned rest.
Then, worn with bitterness and sorely tried,
Grown old in head and heart at thirty-seven,
I thought the common woman at my side
Looked petty by a sweeter face in Heaven.

She saw it in my face as in a book,
And made me shudder at her silent look;
Our lives were wide apart,
She was my wife, but not my other heart
Her bitterness was silent as my pride,
Our words were calm, our hearts were hard and deep;
But once, as I lay waking at her side,
The common woman cursed me in her sleep!

Rich hours were mine, those happy days at sea,
Seasoned with pleasant talk of goodly minds;
Our vessel bravely took the driving winds,
Swift as a ship could be.
I loved to think of England, and the joy
Found in her pleasant places when a boy,
Her copsy villages, her streets and marts,
Her woodland nooks, her peaceful country cheer.
And some few friendly hearts
That beat with happy hopes as I drew near.
Then over all the pleasant dream there stole
Soft fancies of a churchyard still and lone,
A little hamlet, and a sweet lost soul
Mocked by an epitaph as cold as stone;
But when I thought of her, before the best
And very sweetest thought within my breast—
The patient wife I lost in other yean,
Once a sweet memory interdicting pain—
A dark doubt startled out from happy tears
And stung along my brain.

But with us in the ship sailed one, a maid,
Whose sweetness pleased ray humour calm and staid:
I think her pretty childish ways destroyed
The selfish demon in me, more or less;
For contrast made us friends, and I enjoyed
Her chiding tricks of sinless tenderness.
So, often in the calm and sunny weather,
We, sitting side by side, read books together;
And whispered in the twilight shadows dun
Of the green isle towards the setting sun.
She put a boyhood in my blood again
In kindred with her girlish views; I caught
Her fireside warmth of tone, her innocent thought,
Taught by her clearer heart and giddier brain;
She gave my fancy wings,
And brought me closer unto humankind,
Giving new colour to my moody mind,
And sober estimate of men and things.
Yet, when I lay apart,
And communed in the darkness with my heart,
I shuddered—for this long-forgotten lore
Would seem to vindicate my grosser part,
And my thoughts wronged the sleeping woman more.

I was the sinner, and not she,
The woman with hard hands—'twas I alone;
I was the sinner, and my flesh and bone
Were sinned against by me.
I was the sinner—speak it out, O Heart!
What God has linked no man shall dare to part;
And marriage is no whim of boyish blindness
To change as fortune changes—we were one;
And a wife's duty changes with our kindness,
As flowers take colour from the shade or sun.
She was no cultured woman, pure as snow
Through patience to resist;
She changed when I changed, and 'twas I, I know,
Who put the poison in the lips I kissed.

She watched me, day and night,
With a blanch'd bitterness upon her face;
A darkness veiled her in that marriage place
Which gave her privilege to hold me base
When it became unlovely in my sight:
For women, when their use is undiscerened,
Are spat upon and spurned.
She watched me in the darkness and the light,
With a scared anger like a wild affright
I lied against the love for which I yearned;