Nothing of sweetness can fill the air, Nothing of beauty bloom, Save as visions of life more fair Over the spirit loom. Listen to this now—mine and thine. How could I show more worth, Than as a reed for a breath divine, Blowing from heaven to earth? “Music-mad” am I?—Have your say, Whether you blame or applaud, I the behest of my soul obey, Just as it came from God. WHAT THE BOUQUET SAID. For one who would himself be here, And for ourselves who hold you dear, We come, fair maid, to welcome you. For sun-bright eyes like yours we grew, For cheeks like yours, with ardor meet, Would flush, aglow their glow to greet; And up to you, our fragrance rare Is breathed from lips that burst in prayer. Our goddess dear, our sister sweet, This meeting leaves our lives complete. Now dew may fail, or frost may sear, We fade, we die; but have been here. WITH THE YOUNG. Our struggles with the world, I know, Are blessings in disguise. No honors that elsewhere earth can show Outshine its victor’s prize. Yet, when, with naught their course to guide, My feelings freely well, My thoughts will turn to souls untried, And with the young I dwell. Why ask a feeling the reason why?— One’s lot may have been too hard. Those loved in youth, as years go by, May rouse no more regard. Who knows how many in age may fall Whose feet all deem’d secure? Who knows how many can trip at all And ever again be pure? Perchance through each fair childish face I seem to see, as of yore, A form whose young and tender grace Beside me moves no more; And yet a form that waits for me, Where still, as hope maintains, What has been, is, or is to be, In a state unchanged remains Perchance, I share in heaven’s delight Whose hosts recall the past, And guide, at times, in robes of white, Earth’s young through gloom and blast. But leave the cause yet undivined, When feelings freely well, The young have claims no others find, And with the young I dwell. A TRANSLATION. In 1864, the Immaculate Conception of the Virgin was celebrated with unusual splendor in the Church de la Companiè of Santiago, Chili. In the midst of the ceremonies the draped image of the Virgin caught fire. Almost instantly the flames were communicated to ropes suspending along the ceiling upward of twenty thousand colored lamps. These fell in a rain of fire upon the audience below, burning with the church itself as many as two thousand persons, chiefly young ladies from the higher grades of society.