Oh, Mary, Mary, Mary dear! If in my bosom shine One hope, one dream, one single wish, That single wish is thine; And if to see and feel and hear But thee, in heart and brain, Be love, I love thee, Mary dear, And cannot love again! * * * * * TO ADHEMAR. BY E. ANNA LEWIS. ’Tis just one year ago, beloved, to-day, Since, my pale hand between thy hands compressed, I laid my burning brow upon thy breast, And bade the flood-gate of my heart give way— Then shut it down upon its streams for aye. We sought to speak, yet neither said farewell; Fate rung her larum through my spirit’s cell Until the chill of death upon me lay. I never could relive that hour again: Through every artery shot an icy pang, As if an adder pierced me with its fang, And dashed the roseate fount of life with bane. My eyes were open, yet I could not see— I breathed, yet I was dead. All things were dead to me. * * * * * ANNA TEMPLE. A TALE OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. BY JANE GAY. CHAPTER I. Death makes no conquest of this conqueror, For now he lives in fame, though not in life. King Richard III. The Lord Protector was seated beneath a royal canopy in the lofty parliament-chamber of England. At his left stood Thurloe, his secretary, on his right was seated a part of the bold Puritan band who had dared affix their signatures to the death-warrant of Charles Stuart. There was Bradshaw, the intrepid judge who wrote his name first on that fatal paper; there was Ireton—the fiery-hearted Ireton—who had come up in defense of Protestantism fierce and raging “as a lion from the swelling of Jordan;” Goffe, and Whalley, and Dixwell, too, were there, whose ashes repose in our own quiet “City of Elms,” and many others of that fearless band of regicides that three years after were fleeing from home and country, to escape the block or gibbet. Ambassadors from every nation were there—princes and courtiers, officers of the army, judges, petitioners, all helped to make up the illustrious Protectorate Assembly of 1655.