In all their youth, The sunny gladness of their early years, To realms of truth Their spotless souls soar from “the vale of tears.” Strong links may break, Links that are twined around the inmost heart, And dreamers, wake To see their sand-built fabrics slowly part. But thou wilt be, Even as the oak, in all thy strength and pride, An unscath’d tree, While I, the Ivy, cling thy form beside. And when we leave The sunny paths of youth, where flowers grew bright We will not grieve That our brief morning hid its beams in night. Edging each cloud, Hope’s silver ray shall light us near and far, No darken’d shroud Can hide from us love’s ever-burning star. Like noon’s sweet close Before the shades of eve grow dim and dark, When flowers repose, And angels’ eyes day’s slow departure mark. Like that, shall seem Our parting from this world of earthly bloom, And life’s calm stream, Shall gently lave us as we near the tomb. Thine—only thine, The bland winds whisper it at every breath, And thou art mine— Mine thro’ all changes—mine alone till death. Philadelphia, December, 1840. * * * * * CLARA FLETCHER. OR, FIRST AND LAST LOVE. “What a beautiful creature Clara Fletcher is!” exclaimed Mr. Tressayle. “Beautiful!” replied the lady by whom he stood, tossing her head disdainfully, “why la!” and she raised her glass to her eye, “_I_ think she’s positively plain looking.” “Beautiful indeed!” echoed her mamma, a fat, vulgar looking woman, the flaunting colors of whose dress, betrayed her character at once, “why now, I do say, Mr. Tressayle, it’s astonishing—it is—how a gentleman of such _tone_ as you, should think that pert Miss Fletcher any thing but common-like. Why do look at her hair now, I’d be bound she done it up herself—and then her dress, why that stuff,” said she, with a contemptuous curl of her lip, “couldn’t have cost a dollar a yard. Do you think it could, Araminta, my dear?”