Deep in my heart there is a sacred urn I ever guard with holiest care, and keep From the cold world’s intrusion. It is filled With dear and lovely treasures, that I prize Above the gems that sparkle in the vales Of Orient climes or glitter in the crowns Of sceptered kings. The priceless wealth of life Within that urn is gathered. All the bright And lovely jewels that the years have dropped Around me from their pinions, in their swift And noiseless flight to old Eternity, Are treasured there. A thousand buds and flowers That the cool dews of life’s young morning bathed, That its soft gales fanned with their gentle wings, And that its genial sunbeams warmed to life And fairy beauty ’mid the melodies Of founts and singing birds, lie hoarded there, Dead, dead, forever dead, but oh, as bright And beautiful to me as when they beamed With Nature’s radiant jewelry of dew. And they have more than mortal sweetness now, For the dear breath of loved ones, loved and lost, Is mingling with their holy perfume. Like A very miser, day and night I hide The hoarded riches of my dear heart-urn. Oft at the midnight’s calm and silent hour, When not a tone of living nature seems To rise from all the lone and sleeping earth, I lift the lid softly and noiselessly, Lest some dark, wandering spirit of the air Perchance should catch with his quick ear the sound. And steal my treasures. With a glistening eye And leaping pulse, I tell them o’er and o’er, Musing on each, and hallow it with smiles And tears and sighs and fervent blessings. Then, With soul as proud as if yon broad blue sky With all its bright and burning stars were mine. But with a saddened heart, I close the lid, And once again return to busy life, To play my part amid its mockeries. * * * * * STRATFORD-ON-AVON. BY FREDERIKA BREMER.