I know it would be selfish, love, To bid thee live alone, And let none other share thy heart When I from thee am gone. And yet, to know that heart a shrine By one dear image filled, With all the holy warmth of love, Of _early_ love unchilled— To know no other head but mine Should on thy breast be laid, None other hear the tender words Which thou to me hast said— No other name be on thy lips When life’s last hour drew nigh, No wish but for _our_ meeting, love, How blesséd thus to die! * * * * * LIFE IN NEW YORK. A SKETCH OF A LITERARY SOIREE. BY FRANCES S. OSGOOD. My own blue-belle! My pretty blue-belle! Don’t fear that your secrets I’m going to tell; My wings you view, Of your own bright hue, And oh! never doubt that my heart’s “true blue!” THE BUTTERFLY’S SONG. Somebody once said of our fair hostess, that she reminded him of a cathedral with a simple, unpretending portal, which gives you no idea of the rare revelations within, and through which you pass to wonders that you did not dream of before. Once within, you are overwhelmed with the grandeur, the beauty, the mystery, the majesty around you—the lofty and magnificent arches, the dim, far-reaching aisles, the clustered columns, the vaulted roof, lost to the eye from its wondrous height—the glorious pictures by the master-hand—the iris-colored light from the painted windows poured softly over all—the silence, the religious calm pervading the place—all combine to awe and elevate the stranger, who has perhaps rashly and unthinkingly entered that sanctuary of the soul. He was an enthusiast, a noble one, who said this, and I cannot tell if it be true. I only know that she exerts over my individual self a magnetic attraction and influence, which I do not care to analyze or to resist, because it soothes and satisfies me whenever I am with her, however restless and unhappy I may have been the moment before. A pleasant party were assembled in her drawing-room. There was the statuesque Georgine— ——“with stately mien And glance of calm hauteur, Who moves—a grace—and looks a queen, All passionless and pure.”