Few were the mourners, and some there With hard heart said, “the widow’s care Would now be less,” yea, thought that she From a great burthen thus was free. Ill judging ones! ye could not know The depth of that fond mother’s wo. He surely was not loved the less Because of his great helplessness— Nor can we in our weakness tell He was not loved by God as well— The smallest bird and flow’ret share His holy watch and daily care. That broken link in Nature’s chain May after death unite again. The fettered mind! Ah! who can tell What mysteries in that casket dwell, When God, alone who holds the key Shall set the darkened captive free? One gleam of that electric thought, Which beauty out of chaos wrought; One touch of that creative hand Which loosed prime Nature’s iron band, To feeblest mind can give the power On seraph’s wing to mount and soar. We know not but the soul that lay Like folded flower in feeble clay, May open beneath purer skies, And, fanned by airs of Paradise, May bloom in beauty fresh and fair Amid the richer glories there. E. P. * * * * * YOUTHFUL LOVE. BY ALICE G. LEE. “Child no longer. I _love_, and I am Woman!” When first thy face blent with my youthful dreaming, I loved thee fondly, madly, e’en as now; Yet to a mossy bank, with careless seeming, I pressed a woman’s heart, a girl’s young brow. I did not dream that thou couldst ever love me, One that was fondled as a very child! But as the glorious stars that beamed above me, I worshiped thee, with love as deep and wild. Then bending low, thy face was by my pillow: A kiss was pressed upon my burning cheek— As floats a flower upon the foamy billow, Uprose my heart, and yet I could not speak. I sat beside thee in that pulseless hour, And gazed into the cloudless vault above. I learned that o’er thy heart was cast the power— E’en as on mine—the fatal spell of love. Unto my soul it came a torrent rushing, And brought wild thoughts unknown to it before. Bright hopes and dreams within thy heart were gushing Of joys the future held for thee in store. I only knew that, seated now beside thee, My hand lay trembling, nestling in thine own; I only felt thy dear voice did not chide me— Oh, how I treasured every careless tone.