The following winter saw him the happy husband of Ellen Grey; while all trace of Mr. and Mrs. Beauchamp was lost to their view. About two years later, when business had compelled Mr. Forrester to visit one of our southern cities, he strolled into the theatre to get rid of an idle evening, and as he gazed with listless curiosity on the gorgeous spectacle of Indian life which occupied the stage, he was suddenly struck with a familiar tone in the voice and a familiar expression in the countenance of the stately queen of the Zenana. He looked again, the resemblance seemed to grow upon him; he went round to the stage box, and in that near proximity to the actress all doubt vanished. He looked upon the still resplendent beauty of Laura Oriel. * * * * * SIGHTS FROM MY WINDOW—ALICE. BY RUFUS W. GRISWOLD. I sit beside my window, And see the crowds go by, With joy on every countenance, And hope in every eye, And hear their blended voices, In many a shout and song, Borne by the spring’s soft breezes Through all the streets along. And peering through a lattice Of a humble cottage near, I see a face of beauty, Adown which glides a tear,— A rose amid her tresses Tells that she would be gay, But a thought of some deep sorrow Drives every smile away. She whom I see there weeping, Few save myself do know,— A flower in blooming blighted By blasts of keenest wo. She has a soul so gentle, That as a harp it seems, Which the light airs wake to music Like that we hear in dreams. A common fate is that poor girl’s, Which many yet must share,— In the crowd how little know they What griefs its members bear! One year ago a radiance Like sunlight round her played, Heart felt, eyes spoke of gladness,— She was not then betrayed. There was one of gentle manners, Who e’er met her with a smile, And a voice so full of kindness, That she could not deem it guile, And her trusting heart she gave him,— She could give to him no more,— Oh! daughter of the poor man, Soon thy dream of bliss was o’er! ’Twere vain to tell the story Of fear, hope, and joyous passion; She forgot her father’s station, He forsook the halls of fashion; She loved him well—he knew it,— ’Twas a pleasing interlude, Fitting to enjoy more keenly Scenes the poor might ne’er intrude. Hark! the sound of music swelling!— Now the crowd are rushing by, Horses prancing, banners flying, Shouts ascending to the sky!— There’s a sea of life beneath me, And _his_ form is there,— For his fearful sin who spurns him? On his brow what sign of care?