A premium had been offered by the Academy of Arts, for the best portrait of a female that could be placed in the gallery in time for the annual exhibition. Da Vinci resolved to take his model from nature. The fame of Valeria’s beauty was proverbial throughout the city; and the candidate for the palm of excellence, sought out our miserable tenement, and implored permission to have a sitting. Too proud of the opportunity to extend her reputation, I consented to the proposition. Fool! fool! that I was! Why could I not see the danger of placing this young and ardent soul in such a temptation? Da Vinci was young—handsome—and intellectual: Valeria was innocent—amiable—and beautiful—could they but love? Fool, I say, fool that I was! Louisville, Kentucky, January, 1841. * * * * * THE FAIRY’S HOME. Our home is far ’mid the greenwood trees, Where the rose-bloom floats on the burden’d breeze, Where the moon’s beams glance on the sleeping tide, And the lily grows in its stainless pride. There, deep in our flowery homes we dwell, In the cavern’d shades of the fairy’s cell, Where the sound of the wavelet’s ceaseless song, Shall glad the ear of the fairy throng. There calm as the blue of the “bending skies,” Whose beauty may bless e’en fairy’s eyes; We will pass those hours of careless glee, Whilst the woods shall ring with our melody. Our lamp shall be of the fire-fly’s light That shines ’mid the gloom of the darksome night, And led by its star-like rays we’ll roam ’Mid the scenes that grace our woodland home. The notes of the song-bird echo there, And are warbled again by our sisters fair; And the tones of each pure and gentle thing, Are voiced in the strains the fairies sing. Away from the cares and toils of life, No part have we in its scenes of strife, But calm as the sleep of the tideless sea, Our rest in our Fairy Home shall be. S. H. Philadelphia, January, 1841. * * * * * NOT LOST, BUT GONE BEFORE. BY CHARLES WEST THOMSON. The dead but sleep—they do not die, They live in mem’ry’s holy cell— The woodland green, the summer sky Of them in gentle language tell. Each scene that knew them daily speaks Of all their love so fond and true, And tears that tremble on our cheeks, But nerve our sadness to renew. The grief that rent our hearts when first Death broke our early bond in twain, Within our souls, by memory nurst, Will oft times freshly burst again. Yet why indulge unfading grief, For those we loved and now deplore? Theirs is a slumber calm and brief— They are “not lost, but gone before.” January, 1841.