Oh! minstrel monarch! the most glorious throne Of Intellect thy Genius doth inherit. Compeer, or perfect rival thou hast none-- O Soul of Song!--O mind of royal merit. Is not this high, imperishable fame The tribute of a grateful world to thee? A recognizing glory in thy name From a great nation to thy memory. Lord of Dramatic Art--the splendid scenes Of thy rich fancy are around us still; All shapes of Thought to make the bosom thrill Are thine supreme! Many long years have sped, And dimmed in dust the crowned and laureled head, But thou--_thou_ speakest still, though numbered with the dead. THE PORTRAIT. [WITH AN ENGRAVING.] BY ROBT. T. CONRAD. And he hath spoken! Knew I not he would? Though flitting fears, like clouds o'er lakes, would cast Shadows o'er true love's trust. The tear-drop stood In his dark eye; he trembled. But 't is past, And I am his, he mine. Why trembled he? This fond heart knew he not; and that his eye Governed its tides, as doth the moon the sea; And that with him, for him, 't were bliss to die? Yet said I naught. Shame on me, that my cheek And eye my hoarded secret should betray! Why wept I? And why was I sudden weak, So weak his manly arm was stretched to stay? How like a suppliant God he looked! His sweet, Low voice, heart-shaken, spoke--and all was known; Yet, from the first, I felt our souls must meet, Like stars that rush together and shine on. [Illustration: The Bridal Morning J. Hayter A. B. Ross Engraved Expressly for Graham's Magazine] THE ISLETS OF THE GULF; OR, ROSE BUDD. Ay, now I am in Arden; the more fool I; when I was at home I was in a better place; but Travelers must be content. AS YOU LIKE IT. BY THE AUTHOR Of "PILOT," "RED ROVER," "TWO ADMIRALS," "WING-AND-WING," "MILES WALLINGFORD," ETC. [Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1846, by J. Fenimore Cooper, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, for the Northern District of New York.] _(Continued from page 48.)_ PART XV. Man hath a weary pilgrimage As through the world he wends; On every stage, from youth to age, Still discontent attends; With heaviness he casts his eye Upon the road before, And still remembers with a sigh The days that are no more. SOUTHEY.