When poor in all but troth and love, I clasped thee to this beating heart And vowed for wealth and fame to rove, That we might meet no more to part. Years have gone by—long weary years— Of toil to win the comfort now, Of ardent hopes—of sick’ning fears— And Wealth is mine! but where art thou? Fame’s dazzling dream for thy dear sake Rose brighter than before to me; I clung to all I deem’d could make This burning heart more worthy thee! Years have gone by—the laurel droops In mock’ry o’er my cheerless brow; A conquer’d world before me stoops, And Fame is mine! but where art thou? In life’s first hours, despised and lone, I wander’d through the busy crowd, But now that life’s best hopes are gone, They greet with smiles and murmurs loud. Oh! for thy voice—that happy voice— To breathe its joyous welcome now! Wealth, Fame, and all that should rejoice, To me are vain, for where art thou? * * * * * THE JOHNSONS. BY ANN S. STEPHENS. It was a deceitful thing, but my day of trouble dawned with a promise of uncommon enjoyment. It was our weekly holiday, and I looked from my bed-chamber window—merry as a bird, and peculiarly alive to the beauties of a bright June morning. The sky was warm, blue and cloudless, the flowers full of sweetness and lying with the dew upon them in its utmost abundance. The birds were all brimful of melody and the very gravel walk looked cool and clean with a shower that had swept over it during the night. The sun was just up and we were ready with our bonnets on—my school-mate and I—for Colonel M. had promised us a ride and his phaeton was at the door. “Come—come, are you ready,” exclaimed Maria, bounding into my room with her hat on one side—for she had been taking a run after her mamma’s dog, Pink, in the garden, and Pink had led her a race through a raspberry thicket which made a change of slippers necessary, and had displaced her bonnet as I have said. “Come, Sophy, come, Tom has driven to the door—papa is in the hall and the horses are as restless as two wild eagles—nonsense, don’t take that great red shawl, the morning is beautiful—Come—” Before Maria finished speaking she had run down stairs, through the hall, and stood on the door step looking back impatiently for myself and her father, who was very tranquilly drawing on his gloves as he chatted to his wife through a door of the parlor where she still lingered by the breakfast table.