“Oh, psha upon dreams!” he said, running off to hide the tears which, in spite of his manliness, were now streaming down his own cheeks. She saw him spring into the boat, which she kept in sight until it reached the vessel. Then going up to her own room, with a spy-glass she watched the vessel as it gradually receded from view, until its tallest mast sunk beneath the waves. She yielded to a burst of anguish, which she in vain attempted to control, and sat for some moments sobbing, then her tears ceased to flow, and her countenance resumed its wonted serenity; she then went below, superintended old Mary, and prepared her grandfather’s supper with more than usual care, her generous nature not suffering her own private feelings to interfere with the comfort or happiness of others. [_Conclusion in our next._ * * * * * JOY AND SORROW. BY RICHARD COE. “I am happy, O, how happy!” Said a little child, one day, At his play, With his ball of twine and kite, That to his supreme delight, To the skies Did arise, Far from human sight. Came a sudden gust and squall, Gone was kite and twine and all; Tears were in his eyes! “I am happy, O, how happy!” Said a maiden young and fair; On the air, Scarce the words had fallen, when, Lo! her lover, down the glen, Now she sees, On his knees, Like to other men, Vowing love to fairer maid; Words she overheard he said That her soul did freeze! “I am happy, O, how happy!” Said a gay and laughing bride; By her side Stood the husband of her choice, Who did in his strength rejoice: Months have fled; O’er the dead Now she lifts her wailing voice! From her lonely pillow now Who may lift her pallid brow? Who may raise her head? “I am happy, O, how happy!” Said a mother fair and mild; On her child Gazing with her love-lit eyes— The sweet cherub from the skies, That in love, Like a dove, Strayed from Paradise: Lo! the angel Death, one day, Took her darling one away, Beckoning her above! “I am happy, O, how happy!” Said a Christian on his bed, With his head Turned toward the setting sun: “Soon my labor will be done, Then will I, With a sigh, To the mighty One, Who is e’er the Christian’s friend All my anxious cares commend, And will calmly die!” * * * * * STANZAS. BY R. PENN SMITH. The tears of morn that steep the rose A zephyr soon may kiss away; Sporting ’midst odor to unclose The virgin bud to foliage gay.