A woman's love is like the spring Amid the wild alone; A burning wild o'er which the wing Of cloud is seldom thrown; And blest is he who meets that fount, Beneath the sultry day; How gladly should his spirit mount, How pleasant be his way. THIRD VERSE. A woman's love is like the rock, That every tempest braves, And stands secure amid the shock Of ocean's wildest waves; And blest is he to whom repose Within its shade is given-- The world, with all its cares and woes, Seems less like earth than heaven. YEARS AGO.--A BALLAD. WRITTEN EXPRESSLY FOR MRS. C. E. HORN. BY GEORGE P. MORRIS. On the banks of that sweet river Where the water-lilies grow, Breathed the fairest flower that ever Bloomed and faded years ago. How we met and loved and parted, None on earth can ever know, Nor how pure and gentle-hearted Beamed the mourned one years ago. Like the stream with lilies laden, Will life's future current flow, Till in heaven I meet the maiden Fondly cherished years ago. Hearts that truly love forget not-- They're the same in weal or wo-- And that star of memory set not In the grave of years ago. TO MY WIFE. BY ROBT. T. CONRAD. When that chaste blush suffused thy cheek and brow, Whitened anon with a pale maiden fear, Thou shrank'st in uttering what I burned to hear: And yet I loved thee, love, not then as now. Years and their snows have come and gone, and graves, Of thine and mine, have opened; and the sod Is thick above the wealth we gave to God: Over my brightest hopes the nightshade waves; And wrongs and wrestlings with a wretched world, Gray hairs, and saddened hours, and thoughts of gloom, Troop upon troop, dark-browed, have been my doom; And to the earth each hope-reared turret hurled! And yet that blush, suffusing cheek and brow, 'Twas dear, how dear! then--but 'tis dearer now. ISOLA. BY JOHN TOMLIN. I dreamed that thou a lily wast, Within a lowly valley blest; A winged cherub flying past, Plucked thee, and placed within his breast, And there by guardian angel nurst, Thou took'st a shape of human grace, Until, a lowly flower at first, Thou grew'st the first of mortal race. Alas! if I who still was blessed When thou wast but a lowly flower-- To pluck thy image from my breast, Though thus thou will'st it, have no power; Thou still to me, though lifted high In hope and heart above the glen, Where first thou won my idol eye, Must spell my worship just as then. CONTEMPLATION. BY JANE R. DANA. [ILLUSTRATING AN ENGRAVING.]