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to your father's house, where you will establish yourself. Oh, do not knit your pretty brow, or shake your head; don't fancy it is impossible because you do not like it. Your father will receive me well, I will answer for it. I improve

TO A ROSE,

BY MRS. WHITE.

Oh, bright imperial flower,
Whether by palace bower,

on acquaintance, and he will obtain in me a Or giving grace unto the poor man's cot, son-in-law who will be a credit to him."

"But sir," exclaimed Mauricette (indignant

at such cool effrontery, and such unheard-of Or pretensions), you cannot but see yourself that your project is impracticable! monstrous! I

Crowning young beauty's head,
Or clasped by fingers dead,
marking unto love one heaped-up spot!

Thou hast a brighter store
Of rich and varied lore

never can permit such unpardonable deceit, such Than unto earthly poet's page belongs;

a scandalous untruth."

Mocking

Garnered in each bright leaf
Are tales of joy and grief,
all melody of written songs.

"You are quite at liberty, madam, to act as you please, and so am I. And the first step I shall take will be to deliver up the Chevalier Yves de Rosemadoc, your husband, who is under sentence of death-condemned by your father! And though M. Fauvel does not get your And in the fond one's absence breathe his sighs.

marriage at Havre set aside from scruples you will easily divine, he cannot get off making you

Love, to which words are weak,
Thy blushing depths can speak,

Yet as a trumpet's tone,
In days for ever gone,

a widow by sending to the block a man whose Thou didst awake grim faction's battle cries, fiat he has already signed."

"Oh! for pity's sake!" cried Mauricette, shaking with horror at the picture he had Or drawn; "for pity's sake, relent! Be not inexorable to my prayers! What is your wish-my

Now wreathing hall and bower,
Now twined for minstrel dower,
happier still, the chaplet of a bride,

Now scenting rites divine
On some cathedral shrine,

fortune? It shall be yours; I will engage for Or floating votive upon Gunga's tide.

it; I sign to you if you like it-only quit
France. Go where you will, in whatever part

you fix, a regular pension shall be paid you, of The
which you yourself shall fix the amount. All
the money I have, all you want shall be given

They culled thee for the breast

Of beauty in her rest

pulseless rest, that croucheth in the tomb

And decked her, in its trance,
As for a festal dance,

you, if you will but go." And here she con- With tears for gems, and thy pale marble bloom.

tinued, "Take this (drawing a well furnished
note-case from her pocket), here is all the money
my father gave me for the journey; and here-
here," tearing the rings from her fingers, the That
chain from her neck, "take, take all these; I
give them all joyfully, gratefully; only go!"
"I take them," replied Sauvegrain; "and—
I remain !"

(To be continued.)

Thine was the glowing wreath,
The pure and perfumed breath
at the banquets of imperial Rome

Tempered the festive hour
With a refining power,

And twined the wine-cup with a thought of home.

Feast, triumph, bridal, bier, Joy's smiles, or sorrow's tear, Took radiance from thee, or a deeper woe; Emblem of glowing hope,

Of life's fair promise broke

Of mirth, of love, of shattered sweets laid low.

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"PRAY FOR ME."

When the morning gilds the mountain,
Sheds its beams upon the sea-
Scenes we oft have viewed together-
Then, oh, dearest, "Pray for me!"
When the shades of evening, closing,

Bid thee bend the suppliant knee,
And thy thoughts to Heaven are rising,
At that hour then " Pray for me!"

When the holy morn is bringing
Sacred calls from Heaven to thee,
And the Sabbath-bell is ringing,

It will tell thee, "Pray for me!"
And when on my grave thou'rt kneeling,
Let me not forgotten be;

Other worlds may re-unite us,

And through life oh, "Pray for me!"

THE FORGOTTEN SONG.

BY ELIZABETH YOUATT.

"Old quaint turns and passages of my youth, Dreams long forgotten, little in themselvesReturn to me."

ROBERT BROWNING.

Carl Eberstien, for by that name only will we know him, left his home in boyhood, and returned, for the first time, about the period of which we write, a grey-headed man. Soon after his departure his mother died. Carl would never have remained away so long from her, but she was gone; and although he dearly loved the little household band of brothers and sisters, who wrote so often to beg him to return; and although there was one whom he loved even better still, the spell of the world was upon him,

and he came not.

Years passed away, and they heard of him from time to time. Now, a few hastily written words-now, a golden gift, with which he sought to satisfy his own heart-now, a journal full of praise, wherein they learned in what high esteem their poet-brother was held. Gradually those low, praiseful notes swelled into one loud harmony, which reached them in their far-off home, and pride mingled with their affection for

the absent one.

By-and-bye the household band became severed. The youngest sister died, yearning only to see her favourite brother once again. One married. The eldest brother, Ernest, continued to live in the home of their childhood; and the eldest sister kept house for him. When he also married, she still remained, and nursed and took to his children just as if they had been her own. The young wife, who was but a child herself when she came, was very fond of Aunt Lotty, and often wondered what she should have done without her.

They were none of them rich, but all seemed to be happy; and when the family gathered together at Christmas time in the old house, a more glad and loving little company could not well be imagined. "If Carl were but here!" was the only regret which they appeared to have the only shadow upon their happiness. His sister, upon one occasion, making excuses for him in her heart, said—

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How can we expect that Carl will come here, when even princes vie with each other for his society?"

"Still he might come just for once-just for a day," replied Ernest.

"When we are rich," said Aunt Lotty, will go to him."

"What if he should be ashamed of us?"

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"Ashamed of us! his own brothers and sisters!" exclaimed Aunt Lotty. Dear, dear Carl! we know him better than that. Oh, Ernest!"

"He did not mean it," said his little wife, kissing him by way of punishment. And then Aunt Lotty kissed him too, with tears in her eyes.

Another lapse of years. Carl Eberstien is coming home at last! It is like a festival-day; the peasants walk about, or congregate in groups, singing those stirring heart-songs, which have since become so popular-the poet's own songs. They have hung garlands of flowers upon the green trees; and little coloured flags wave from many an humble roof. Ernest has gathered his kindred about him to welcome back the lost one; but there is something in his heart which should not be between brothers. Is it pride? or envy? or anger at his long neglect? If Ernest knew what the feeling was, he would have shaken it off. Aunt Lotty and the other sister began to wonder what he will be like, and a fear mingles with their love.

The Poet came at length-grey-headed, pale, and bent, he seemed to be the oldest man there; and, alas! his heart had grown old too. He was touched by the warmth of their reception, but he could not feel as they felt he could not enjoy what they enjoyed-he could not laugh as they laughed-he could not love as they loved. There was little between them in common save the old affection-the ties of blood and kindred, which can never be wholly broken. Whatever the feeling was in the heart of Ernest against his brother, it melted into pity, and never returned again. Yes, they pitied him-they, the happy, the healthful, the loving, pitied that worldhonoured and world-wearied man.

It is a sad thing to find, or fancy, the circle of social joy complete without us, and ourselves standing afar off. Thus it was with Carl Eberstien. How gladly would they have unclasped hands and taken his, and drawn him in, and made him one of them; but he shrank back. There was no sympathy between them. He stood apart, and they all reverenced him-but reverence is not love. The children's voices were hushed when he was by. The hearts of children are so easy to win-nay, they were half won already by his genius; but he made no step

to meet these little ones on their own ground. Even his sisters did not talk together so freely in his presence as at other times, and yet they loved him so much. Ernest and he were brothers, but they could not be called friends. There was a gulph between them, from which time and estrangement had torn up and obliterated every stepping-stone whereon the one might pass over to the other. And neither knew how, or cared to set about building up a bridge that should reach from earth to cloudland.

Carl had brought with him a young Englishman whom he had met with in his travels, and whom we shall call Vivian-a poet too, although he had never yet published a line. His bright, cheerful spirit made him a favourite with old and young, especially Aunt Lotty, and, it has been whispered, one of Aunt Lotty's beautiful little nieces, but we hope not. As Professor Ernhalt says, a young girl may as well fall in love with a comet as a poet, seeing that the one is about as bewildering and erratic as the other." The learned professor being a poet himself, may be supposed to know something of these mat

ters.

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Carl Eberstien had not been home many weeks before he proposed making an excursion with Vivian to a remote village, where several happy years of his early life had been passed under the care of an aged clergyman, long since dead. Vivian readily consented, the more readily as he should thereby see more of the friend from whom he was so soon to be separated, his mother having written to request his return to England. Aunt Lotty was sorry when he went, and so was the aforesaid niece. Carl had promised to come back to them again, but in all probability they would never see his companion more.

For the first two or three hours after they started, Vivian was haunted by a pair of large dark eyes looking shyly at him through tears. The first place they stopped at, he dashed off some exquisite stanzas addressed "To

on leaving." A few nights afterwards, he lighted his meerschaum with the verses, and laughed at his own folly.

They arrived at the place of their destination on a sweet summer evening, just before sunset. The whole valley appeared to be bathed, as it were, in a golden light. It was so still, so calm, so peaceful. Vivian was in raptures.

"How beautiful!" exclaimed he, pressing nearer to the side of his friend.

"Yes, it is beautiful. But I was not thinking of the place. I was listening to what it was telling me."

Vivian thought that he should like to have listened also.

A word-a name-a locality; what a host of recollections-what memories it recalls to our hearts. The past and the present stand, as it were, side by side. The boy as he was-the man as he is. He only seemed to be changed, all else was the same. The village church remained, but the good old pastor slept beneath

its shadow. The sky was as blue; but, as one of our own poets has said, it appeared "farther off." There stood the wooden bridge, and the white water-lilies gazing at themselves in the clear stream

"And the alder tree which sighs alway,

On the stillest night, and the calmest day." Everything looked peace-inviting as ever. The poet's eye drank in their beauty, but his heart gave back no echo. He listened to the many voices, all speaking to him at once, and dreamt of the days that were gone.

A long silence ensued, which was broken at length by a clear, childish voice, singing a simple and touching melody. Carl felt that he had heard it before, but when and where he knew not-perhaps in his dreams. Every word, every little cadence, seemed familiar, bringing back a crowd of indistinct recollections, which refused to form themselves into any tangible shape.

Vivian pointed out the singer. She was sitting with her little brother upon the grass, in the fading sunlight, making flower-wreaths, and appeared to be about eight or nine years of age. Upon seeing them approach, she ceased singing, and coloured deeply, while her little brother laughed.

"Will you tell me, my child, the name of the song which you were singing but now?" said Carl, gently. "I have certainly heard it many times before, but I cannot tell where-I want to recollect."

"You cannot have heard it before,” replied the boy. "It is mother's song, and no one knows it but she and Mary, who has learned it from hearing her sing it so often."

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Mary!" repeated the poet, dreamily.

"It is impossible that he could have heard it, I tell you," continued the dauntless boy, in answer to a reproving glance from his sister. It is mother's own song, and was written for her by a great poet who lived here once, years ago. He taught her the air as well. He has written a great many songs since, which are sung, they say, throughout all Germany; but no one knows this song but mother and Mary."

"Would you mind singing it again, my child?" asked Carl.

The little girl complied with his request, but her voice was tremulous through bashfulness.

"If you will come home with us," said the boy, "I will ask mother to sing it to you. You should hear her sing it. It is not far," and the boy pointed to a little rose-covered cottage which stood at the entrance of the valley,

Carl arose mechanically, and went with the children. Vivian followed them.

"And so your name is Mary?" said Carl to his timid companion.

"Yes, sir. It is my mother's name. They call me little Mary. But there is my mother looking out for us."

Carl lifted up his eyes, and saw her standing in the cottage porch. Time had dealt very gently with her. The fair brow was unwrinkled;

the smooth, shining hair undimned; the starry eyes had their old brightness, but there was not the old look in them, the old affection, but only wonder, and something of shyness.

She laughed and blushed when their presence was accounted for by Vivian, with apologies for its abruptness. Carl said not a word. She made believe to scold her little son, but he did not seem to mind her much; and then, hearing that they had been travelling all day, insisted so kindly upon their taking some refreshment, that they could not refuse her hospitality.

"I am expecting my husband every moment," said she," and then we will have supper."

"And after supper, mother, you will sing your song."

His mother shook her head at the boy, and went into the cottage with her guests. In the middle of the room stood a table, covered with a snowy cloth, upon which was spread a tempting supply of fruit and cream, together with home-made bread, and cakes and buns innumerable. Presently the husband came in, courteous and self-possessed. The strangers received a hearty welcome, and Vivian made a hearty supper, laughing and talking all the time; but still Carl spoke not a word.

The moon arose, and shone into that pleasant room; they needed no other light. Vivian saw that, as they sat and talked, the hand of the wife rested in that of her husband, and that she looked at him proudly when he spoke well, which was not seldom, for he appeared to be a man of singular intelligence. Carl saw it too. At last Vivian ventured to ask for the song which had been the means of bringing them all together. Again Mary looked at her husband, but he only smiled. She glanced from him to the silent stranger. Their eyes met—the veil of years rolled back from her heart, and she knew him again.

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"Now, mother dear," exclaimed the little boy impatiently, we are waiting for your song." "Not to-night, my child," replied Mary, in a low voice.

Vivian forbore to press her; and reminding his friend of the lateness of the hour, they arose to depart.

"Mary!" whispered Carl, as they stood together in the moonlight porch, “are you happy?"

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me?"

Yes, very happy."

Happier than you would have been with

"You must not ask me that, Carl. God knows best what is best for us. I loved you once, at least I thought I did-and I thought also that you loved me. But years passed, and you neither wrote nor came; and then I met him-my husband. Yes, I am very happy."

"God bless you, Mary!" said her old lover, as he turned away. After he had gone a short distance, he looked back, and saw the little group still standing in the moonlight. Mary's head rested upon her husband's shoulderdoubtless she was telling him all.

"Woe unto those," writes Frederika Bremer, "who find a pearl in the stream of life, and fling it heedlessly away."

"Woe unto those," exclaimed Carl, "who barter affection for ambition-who sell love for fame!"

"But may we not unite them together?" asked Vivian.

"We must, if we would be happy. Fame cannot make us happy-praise cannot make us happy-but love only."

"That is," observed Vivian, 66 we must learn to say we; and to weave the rose with the laurel."

"Woe unto those," continued Carl, "whose pathway to greatness lies over the ruins of home, and home ties; who cultivate the intellect, and neglect the affections. Ichabod! Ichabod!"

A few weeks after the events above related, Vivian returned to England. He has become a great man since then, as Carl always prophesied that he would. He has won the laurel, and his home is green and bright with its verdure. When we last heard of him, his garland of fame was mingled with the orange blossom as well as the rose.

Carl Eberstien went back to his kindred. A change seemed to have come over him ever since that evening when he heard once more "THE FORGOTTEN SONG." The little children are not afraid of him now, but call him Uncle Carl, and wonder what makes his hair so much whiter than papa's. If we are to believe Aunt Lotty, there never was such a brother or such a poet in all the world as Carl Eberstien.

THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS.
The Pink, by knight to lady given,
Prays her to be his bride;
The proud Carnation answering tells
That fervent prayer's denied.

So, lady, when a cavalier

Presents a chequered Pink,
"Tis time to ascertain, my dear,
His rent-roll, I should think.

And then, provided his estate
Meets not your approbation,
It cannot surely be too late

To cut with a Carnation.

Yet, lady, think before you choose "Twixt Pink and gay Carnation, If you an offer good should lose

'Twould cost you much vexation.

You'd better keep his heart on fire
By offering him a Laurel,
For then 'tis easy, when you tire,
To take offence and quarrel.

But fickleness like this you'd scorn;
It ill becomes a beauty-
Give him the Rose, the blushing Rose,
He'll ne'er forget his duty.

M. I. K. B.

ZENOBIA.

(From the Italian of Metastasio.)

(Concluded from page 154.)

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Zenobia's false to me; while Egle holds
That all these harrowing doubts of mine are
vain.

Heavens! Zopyrus or Egle-which deceives?
I hear thy croaking voice, tormenting fiend,
Sick jealousy, old inmate of my heart,
Thou still go'st whispering me: 'tis Egle lies.
Wherefore, since I hate thee, tyrant—
Since I chase thee still away—
Dost thou, evermore returning,
Make my anguish'd heart thy prey?
What repose dare hope I longer,
If each hour be spent in strife-
If a doubt beyond suppressing
Turn to gall my cup of life.
Zen. (within) But whither wend we?
Rad. (starting) Ah! what voice was that?
I would be sworn it was my wife that spake;
This way the sound came, soh! to search it out
I cannot hope but, Fortune, thou must laugh!

[Retires.

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