What tho’ mine eye thro’ dreary distance faileth In its deep search to hail thy welcome form? What tho’ my cheek thro’ long, long watching fadeth, And my sad heart leaps not so freshly warm? Still unto thee no eyes beam brighter lustre, No vermeil cheeks thy early love’s outshine; Around no heart do richer feelings cluster, Than swell in that which is so wholly thine. Why do I mourn that mountain billows sever? Vain may they strive our spirits to divide, For am I not, mine own one, with thee ever? E’en as thou art forever at my side. * * * * * WICCÓNSAT. A LEGEND OF ST. MARY’S. BY MRS. MARY M. FORD. On the eastern bank of a small river, which enters the Potomac a few miles above its confluence with the waters of the Chesapeake Bay, are still to be seen vestiges of the earliest settlement in Maryland; once the village of Youcómaco, but quietly yielded by the natives to the white colonists, who there built a town, calling it St. Mary’s. Subsequent events led to its desertion for a more advantageous location, and the ravages of time have left little to tell of its former state. It has faded away, unnoticed and unsung, yet its name is still seen on the older maps of our country. The river, which once bore the appellation of St. George’s, is now called St. Mary’s, but whether in memory of the deserted town, or not, is uncertain. Ruins are happily so scarce in our young and thriving republic, that the simple legend which gives a name to my story, may awaken some interest among those, to whose imaginations the solitary remains of the past seem to speak in the breathings of the winds that sweep over their ruins. The circumstances which led to its narration, by one who had heard it in the mother country, and in whose family its memory had been handed down, were as follows:— Many years ago, as the last lingering sunbeams were fading from the sky, giving place to the mellow twilight; and a ruddy tinge was on the bosom of the waters, where the little river of St. Mary’s mingled its tributary stream with the waves of the broad Potomac; a small vessel had just anchored within the mouth of the former river, on which is established a port of entry. The craft seemed awaiting the boarding officer, who, at a point further up the river, was just entering his boat. He appeared very young, and, from the open gaiety of his fine countenance, seemed to enjoy corresponding lightness of heart. He raised a small telescope to his eye, and exclaimed to the two colored men who were loosening the boat— “It must be a Yankee schooner; be quick Basil! Luke!” “Aye, aye, Massa Frank,” replied Luke, “all ready—that’s an eastern craft, sure.” The light barge was soon on the waves, and the youth took the helm, while the strong arm of his companions were engaged with the oars.