Having got through with this ceremony, and having heard the Hayes entirely through the programme, the buck repairs to “Guys” or “Pelletiers,” and eats or drinks whatever his rich acquaintances request and pay for. After a time he returns to his room in the fifth story, goes to bed and snores until eleven next morning, when the servant enters to awaken him to another day of similar events. * * * * * STANZAS. BY SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. Tell him I lingered alone on the shore, Where we parted in sorrow to meet never more; The night wind blew cold on my desolate heart, But colder those wild words of doom “Ye must part!” O’er the dark heaving waters I sent forth a cry, Save the wail of those waters there came no reply. I longed like a bird o’er the billows to flee From my lone island home and the moan of the sea. Away—far away—from the wild ocean shore, Where the waves ever murmur, “No more, never more.”[1] Where I dream ’tis his voice, and then wake but to hear That lone song of the surges, so mournful and drear. Yet tell him our own fairy isle of the sea Is still dear in its desolate beauty to me, Though a hollow wind sighs through the echoing bowers, Where I wander alone through an Eden of flowers; Though the wing of the tempest o’ershadows the wold, Where the asphodel meadows once blossomed in gold, And the silence and chill of the sepulchre sleep On its dream-haunted woodlands that border the deep. And say, though the night-wind blew cold, and the gloom Of our parting was drear as the night of the tomb, I know when all shadows are swept from the main, Our own star o’er the waters shall tremble again. When the clouds that now veil from us heaven’s fair light; Their soft silver lining turn forth on the night; When time shall the vapors of falsehood dispel, He shall know if I loved him, but never how well. Though we meet not again in our island of flowers; Though the hollow winds sigh through its desolate bowers, Every bud that the wing of the tempest has riven, Shall blossom again in the islands of heaven. ----- [1] No more—no more—no more! Such language bears the solemn sea To the sands upon the shore. _Lines to One in Paradise._ * * * * * THE SIGH. BY MRS. E. OAKES SMITH. We meet no more in silent bower, No more in festive hall— Nor when comes on the twilight hour, And night dews ’gin to fall— The stars in quiet beauty shine, As once they shone on high, When all thy radiant looks were mine, Though only now _thy sigh_.