Gentle reader, this is but a plain, unvarnished tale. It is true, I might have drawn upon my imagination for adorning it. I might have presented you with hair-breadth escapes, and crushing reverses; but I could not do so without detracting from its perfect truthfulness—for the incidents on which the foregoing pages are founded, are literally true. I regret exceedingly that I am unable to wind-up with a marriage; but for the gratification of my youthful readers, I must not forget to add, that this event will take place immediately on the return of Mr. Thatcher from Europe, whither he has been unexpectedly called to transact some important business for the firm of Thatcher & Co. * * * * * ODE TO TIME. BY WM. GILMORE SIMMS, AUTHOR OF “YEMASSE,” “GUY RIVERS,” ETC. I. Gray monarch of the waste of years, Mine eyes have told thy steps in tears, Yet yield I not to feeble fears, In watching now thy flight; The neck, long used to weighty yoke, The tree, long shivered by the stroke, The heart, by frequent torture broke, Need fear no second blight. II. Oh! mine has been a mournful song— My neck has felt the burden long— My tree was shivered—weak and strong, Beneath the bolt went down: My heart—enough—thou canst not prey On many in this later day; The old, the young, were torn away, Ere manhood’s wing had flown; I saw the noble sire, who stood, Majestic, as in crowded wood The pine—and after him the brood— All perish in thy frown! III. So, count my hopes, and know my fears, And ask what now this life endears, To him who gave, with many tears, Each blossom of his love; Whose store in heaven, so precious grown, He counts each earthly moment flown, As loss of something from his own, In treasures stored above! Denied to seek—to see—his store, Yet daily adding more and more, Some precious plant, that, left before, The spoiler rends at last. Not hard the task to number now, The few that live to feel the blow; The perished—count them on my brow— With white hairs overcast! IV. White hairs—while yet each limb is strong, To hold the right and crush the wrong; Ere youth, in manhood’s struggling throng, Had half pursued his way: Thought premature, that still denied The boy’s exulting sports—the pride, That, with the blood’s unconscious tide, Knew but to shout and play! Youth, that in love’s first gush was taught To see his fresh affection brought To tears, and wo, and death— While yet the fire was in his eye, That told of passion’s victory— And, in his ear, the first sweet sigh, From beauty’s laboring breath. V.