[Footnote 4: I have here used the license, in order to carry out the contrast, of supposing that the Office of Doge, like most of the institutions of Venice, is preserved by the Austrian government; though I believe it has been abolished.] SONG.--THOU REIGN'ST SUPREME. Thou reign'st supreme, love, in my heart, O'er every secret thought; Thou canst not find the smallest part Where thou abidest not. All blest emotions, every sense Are consecrate to thee; Would that affection so intense, But filled thy heart for me! Thou reign'st supreme, love, eyes that burn With the soul's restless fire, Their liquid glances on me turn, Yet no fond thoughts inspire. E'en in that hour for thee I long, Like a wild bird set free; Ah! would that love so true and strong But filled thy heart for me! Thou reign'st supreme, love, while I live Thine shall be every breath; And be thou near me to receive My last fond sighs in death; Thus to expire were joy, were bliss, May such my portion be! Oh! would that love as deep as this, But filled thy heart for me! C. E. T. THE NEW ENGLAND FACTORY GIRL. A SKETCH OF EVERYDAY LIFE. BY MRS. JOSEPH C. NEAL. For naught its power to STRENGTH can teach Like =Emulation=--and ENDEAVOR. SCHILLER. (_Concluded from page_ 292.) CHAPTER III. THE RETURN--THE LOSS. How vexatious is delay of any kind when one's mind is prepared for a journey, "made up to go," as a good aunt used to say. Mary grew anxious and almost impatient as April passed and found her still an inhabitant of the city of looms and spindles. The more so, that spring was the favorite season, and she longed to watch its coming in the haunts of her childhood; and in the busy, bustling atmosphere by which she was surrounded, none gave heed to the steps of "the light-footed maiden," save that our heroine's companions availed themselves of the balmier air to dress more gayly. In our larger cities the ladies are the only spring blossoms. It is they who tell us by bright tints and fabrics, that the time has come when nature puts on her gay appareling; yet it is in vain that they imitate the lilies of the field, there is a grace, a delicacy in those frail blossoms, that art never can rival. Mary had so longed for the winter to pass, she had even counted the days that must intervene before she could hope to see her mother, and all the dear ones at home. The little gifts she had prepared for them were looked over again and again; and each time some trifle had been added until she almost began to fear she was growing extravagant. But she worked cheerfully, and most industriously, through the pleasant days, and when evening came, she would dream, in the solitude of her little room, of the meeting so soon to arrive.