Night after night unheeded glides away 'Mid mirth and music, flattery's whispered tone, Her dreary penance--ever to be gay, Yet longing, oh! how oft--to be alone; But when all other hearts seek needful rest, And heavy sleep the saddest eyelids close, Her dreams are those the wretched only know, As memory o'er her soul its shadow's throw. Friends that had shared her girlhood's happier day, And forms now mingling with the dust arise, The early loved recalled with pensive tears, Though once in pride half scorned and lightly prized; Fair pictured scenes long vanished from her sight, Soft tones of songs and voices loved of yore. And words of tenderness and looks of light, And fresh young hopes that bloom for her no more. But this one hour has crowned in deep despair The many sorrows of life's galling chain, Yet mid those sighs that rend her aching soul The heart's wild struggle is not felt in vain, For she has turned to Him whose smile can cheer The darkened mind and hopes lost light reveal, And learns to feel 'mid trembling doubt and fear-- That HE whose power can wound is strong to heal. While loftier thoughts to nobler purpose given Than those long wasted amid fashion's glare, And deep resolves the future shall be fraught With holy deeds, her earnest musings share-- Though in the dance her step no more may glide, The glittering circle miss its chosen queen, Around the vacant place a closing tide Will leave no record where her form was seen. But where the widow's tear-drop may be dried, And where the orphan wanders sad and lone, Where poverty its grieving head may hide, Will breathe the music of her voice's tone; And if her face was blest with beauty rare 'Mid gilded sighs and worldly vanity, When heavenly peace has left its impress there Its loveliness from earthly stain is free. LE PETIT SOULIER. A STORY: IN TWO PARTS. BY IK. MARVEL. PART I. I have said that the Abbe G---- had a room in some dark corner of a hotel in the Rue de Seine, or Rue de la Harpe--which of the two it was I really forget. At any rate, the hotel was very old, and the street out of which I used to step into its ill-paved, triangular court, was very narrow, and very dirty. At the end of the court, farthest from the heavy gateway, was the box of the _concierge_, who was a brisk little shoemaker, forever bethwacking his lap-stone. If I remember right, the hammer of the little _cordonnier_ made the only sound I used to hear in the court; for though the house was full of lodgers, I never saw two of them together, and never heard them talking across the court from the upper windows, even in mid-summer.