The Bride to her Husband.

As the fragrant heart of the virgin rose,
When at dewy morn its leaves unclose;
As the flake of snow when it first finds rest,
On the feathery moss of the mountain's breast.

As the young moon's light on streamlet thrown
Where gentle ring-doves drink alone;
As the gem that lies in the deep, deep sea,
So pure, so true is my love for thee!

MRS. L. J. PIERSON.

Think of those Behind.

WHEN from land and home receding,
And from hearts that ache to bleeding;
Think of those behind who love thee,
While the sun is bright above thee!
Then, as down the ocean glancing,
With the waves his rays are dancing,
Think how long the night will be
To the eyes that weep for thee.
MISS H. F. GOULD.

Lobe's Mistake.

ON mission pure, from realms divine,
Young Love was sent to Virtue's shrine,
But wild and gay, he stopped to play,
With sportive Beauty, by the way.

She led him through her fragrant bowers,
She chained his wings with wreaths of flowers,
She charmed him with her magic smile,
And softly murmured-" Rest awhile!"

Alas! his eyes were blinded quite
By Beauty's dazzling glance of light;
And while the glorious Syren sings,
The boy forgets his angel-wings!

Yet still he sometimes leaves his play,
And asks," to Virtue's shrine" the way;
But Beauty weaves anew her chain,
And Virtue looks for Love in vain!

MRS. F. S. OSGOOD.

An Evening Walk.

THE crisp frost crackles sharp the foot beneath

How sigh the melancholy winds along, Tossing the boughs, or wailing o'er the heath, The year's wild funeral song!

Hist! yonder stealing timidly away

The startled rabbit patters o'er the snowsRings o'er the hill the farm-boy's carol gay, As whistling home he goes.

In fits, the keen blast from the icy north
Over the clear cold sky is calling out-
And hark! from woodland highway echoing
forth,

The sleigher's merry shout!

Beneath the hill-side, in the moonlit glade,
Where the glip lake reflects the cloudless sky,
Group the gay skaters in the dreamy shade,
Or glide like spirits by.

The moon is down--and slowly, one by one,
The stars light up as kindling altar-fires :
How the rapt soul, by high emotions won,
To yon bright realm aspires!

We all are prisoners in these bonds of clayBut often vague, mysterious memories come, And, struggling free, the spirit soars away, Athirst for heaven and home!

C. J. PETERSON.

Faded Flowers.

FRAGILE, yet sweet remembrancers! to me Ye bring dim dreams of the years' golden prime; Wild mingling melodies of bird and bee, That pour on summer-winds their silvery chime;

And of soft incense burdening all the air From flowers, that by the sunny garden-wall Bloomed at your side; nursed into beauty

there

By dews and silent showers,-but these to all Ye bring. Oh, sweeter far than these the spell

Shrined in those fairy urns for me alone.
For me a charm sleeps in the honeyed cell,
Whose power can call back hours of rapture
flown;

To the lone heart sweet memories restore,
Tones, looks, and words of love, that may

return no more.

MRS. S. H. WHITMAN.

Cast not Affection from Thee.
If thou hast crush'd a flower,
The root may not be blighted;
If thou hast quench'd a lamp,
Once more it may be lighted:
But on thy harp or on thy lute,

The string which thou hast broken,
Shall never in sweet sound again

Give to thy touch a token!

If thou hast loos'd a bird,

Whose voice of song could cheer thee,

Still, still he may be won

From the skies to warble near thee; But if upon the troubled sea

Thou hast thrown a gem unheeded,

Hope not that wind or wave shall bring
The treasure back when needed.

If thou hast bruis'd a vine,

The summer's breath is healing, And its clusters yet may glow,

Through the leaves their bloom revealing;

But if thou hast a cup o'erthrown,

With a bright draught fill'd-oh! never