Our story is done. The terror of the populace; the humble apologies of the magistracy; the merited punishment of the perjured publican; and the speedy union of the Count and the converted princess—are they not all written in the chronicles of the noble house of Garonne? * * * * * WOMAN’S DOWER. BY L. J. PIERSON. She sat, oppress’d with cruel care, And bow’d with agonizing pain, And the cold sceptre of despair Lay where her dearest hopes had lain; And bitter drops, from Marah’s spring, Bedew’d the pale rose on her cheek, And fierce disease was torturing Her vitals with a vulture’s beak: And taunting words were in her ears— “Thou first in sin! Frail cause of all The cares and toils that waste our years, The pangs that change our joys to gall; Thou gav’st the sceptre unto Death! Thy hand unbarr’d the insatiate tomb, And wak’d and arm’d the fiery wrath That deals the sinner’s final doom!” She rais’d her meek wet eyes to Heaven, And all her pray’r was one long sigh; It told how deep her heart was riven, And won an angel from on high. “Daughter! thy lot is hard to bear,” The spirit said, with healing tone, “Submission, agony, and care, Endur’d in silence and alone: These are thy lot, and Mercy’s power May not reverse the just decree; Yet have I brought a priceless dower, A gem from God’s own crown, to thee. Hide the rich jewel in thy breast, Deep in thy bosom’s holiest bow’r: Its warmth and light shall make thee blest, E’en in thy darkest, loneliest hour. Its light shall throw around thy form An atmosphere of joy and peace, And fill thy home with radiance warm— A glowing flood of magic bliss. When thy young heart to man is given, And the white bride-rose wreathes thy brow, This live coal from the fires of Heaven Shall with ecstatic rapture glow; And when thy new-born infant lies In helpless beauty on thy breast, Thy heart shall thrill with ecstacies Sweet as the transports of the blest. This living beam of perfect love— Pure love, that lives without return: This sparkle from the bliss above— Forever in thy soul shall burn. Not all the fiends of earth shall wrench This treasure from thy heart away, Nor all the waves of sorrow quench, Within thy soul, the deathless ray. Life’s dearest tie may prove a chain, And gall thy heart through weary years; Thy hopes maternal may prove vain, And sink beneath a flood of tears; And haggard cares may round thee crowd— Yet this rich gift shall light thy gloom, And throw a rainbow on the cloud That darkens o’er thy dear one’s tomb.” Yes, _perfect_ love is woman’s dower, Her brightest charm, her richest gem, Her shield from every cruel power, Her sceptre, and her diadem. Let her beware, lest earth-born fires Touch the pure altar where it glows: