The stranger pressed a lonely bed, No smiles dispelled the gloom Of the dark and funeral shades that spread Around his dying room; And his heart with grief did melt, And he wandered in fevered dreams To the home where the loved of his youth still dwelt, By the side of his own blue streams: His heart for their voices yearned, And the warm tears fell like rain, As his dying eyes to the home were turned That he ne’er should see again. The stranger’s griefs are o’er, And his body lies alone, From his friends afar on a foreign shore Without a funeral stone; And long shall voices call, And midnight tapers burn For him that is bound in death’s cold thrall, But he shall no more return: He shall return no more From his lowly sleep in dust, ’Till the trump announce death’s bondage o’er, And the “rising of the just.” * * * * * THE FIRST STEP. BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY. “Well met, Harry,” exclaimed Edward Morton, as he encountered his friend Wilford in Broadway, “I have two questions to ask you. In the first place, what do you call that odd-looking vehicle in which I saw you riding yesterday? and in the second, who was that pretty little sister Ruth seated so demurely beside you?” “My new carriage,” said Harry, laughing, “having been invented by myself, has the honor to bear my name; it is called a Wilford; I will sell it to you cheap, if you like it, for that booby Danforth has ordered one of the same pattern, and I will never sport mine after he comes out with his.” “And so because a fool follows your lead you throw up your cards; you will have enough to do if you carry out that rule in all your actions. Thank you for your kind offer; but really I am neither rich nor fashionable enough to drive about town in such a Welsh butter-tub. Now, answer my second question; who is the lady;—has she been named in honor of the vehicle?” “No, but she will probably bear the name of its inventor in due time.” “Can it be possible, Harry? have you really determined to turn Benedict before the pleasures of freedom have palled upon your taste? Have you seriously reflected upon all you are about to relinquish? Have you thought upon the pleasant _tête-à-têtes_, the agreeable flirtations, the many delicious ‘love-passages’ which the admired Harry Wilford is privileged to enjoy while he roves at large, but which will hereafter be denied to him who wears the clanking fetters of matrimony?” “I have thought of every thing, Ned; and, to tell you the truth, I am beginning to get tired of the aimless, profitless life I now lead.” “And, therefore, you are going to turn merchant and marry; you will have a considerable amount to add to profit and loss by these experiments. Pray who is the enchantress that has woven so wondrous a spell of transformation?”