In night’s still hour, when I went forth to weep Beneath our favorite tree, whose giant arms Seemed stretched out to protect the lonely girl, I marked a figure stealing thence away, And my poor heart beat quick; for oh! I saw, Despite the closely-muffled cloak, ’twas thou Then, then I knew that thou in secrecy Had’st sought that spot, like me, to muse and weep O’er blighted memories. Thou art, like me, In heart a mourner. In thy solitude, When mortal eyes behold thee not, wild sighs Convulse thy bosom, and thy hot tears fall Like burning rain. Oh! ’twas thy hand that dealt The blow to both our hearts. I well could bear My own fierce sufferings, but thus to feel That thou, in all thy manhood’s glorious strength Dost bear a deep and voiceless agony, Lies on my spirit with the dull, cold weight Of death. I see thee in my tortured dreams, And even with a smile upon thy lip, But a keen arrow quivering deep within Thy throbbing, bleeding heart. Go, thou may’st wed Another; but beside the altar dark My mournful form will stand, and when thou see’st The wreath of orange blossoms on her brow, Oh! it will seem a fiery scorpion coiled Wildly around thine own. I’m dying now; Life’s sands are failing fast, the silver cord Is loosed and broken, and the golden bowl Is shattered at the fount. My sun has set, And dismal clouds hang o’er me; but afar I see the glorious realm of Paradise, And by its cooling fountains, and beneath Its holy shades of palm, my soul will wash Away its earthly stains, and learn to dream Of heavenly joys. Farewell! despite thy cold Desertion, I will leave my angel home, Each gentle eve, at our own hour of tryst, To hold my vigils o’er thy pilgrimage, And with my spirit’s-pinion I will fan Thy aching brow, and by a holy spell, That I may learn in Heaven, will charm away All evil thoughts and passions from thy breast, And calm the raging tumult of thy soul. * * * * * THE LOST DEED. A LEGEND OF OLD SALEM. BY E. D. ELIOT. (_Concluded from page 195._) Mr. Fayerweather and Madam were seated at breakfast before a blazing fire, one very cold morning in January. John had already finished, and had gone to Mr. Wendell’s office, in which he was studying his profession. Vi’let following Scipio, who had entered with some warm toast, came up to the table and said— “It’s a terrible cold morning, Misser Fayerweather—I ’spect Primus han’t got no wood—he’d only jist three sticks yesterday; he’s sick with the rheumatis, too—mayn’t Scip carry him over some?” This meant not wholly for the benefit of Primus, but also as a wholesome discipline of Scip himself, whose health Vi’let thought in danger for want of exercise. Scip glouted at her but did not dare speak.