The gallant victim of love's honor was no more. Doomed to a lingering death he had died speedily, though by no act of his own. A blood-vessel had burst within, through the violence of his own emotions. Ignorant of the fate of his sweet Melanie, he had died, as he had lived, the very soul of honor; and when they buried him, in the old chapel of his Breton castle, beside his famous ancestors, none nobler lay around him; and the brief epitaph they carved upon his stone was true, at least, if it were short and simple, for it ran only thus-- =Raoul de St. Renan. Fiel a la Muerte.= THE POET'S HEART.--TO MISS O. B. BY CHARLES E. TRAIL. Like rays of light, divinely bright, Thy sunny smiles o'er all disperse; And let the music of thy voice, More softly flow than Lesbian verse. By all the witchery of love, By every fascinating art-- The worldly spirit strive to move, But spare, O spare, the Poet's heart! Within its pure recesses, deep, A fount of tender feeling lies; Whose crystal waters, while they sleep, Reflect the light of starry skies. Thy voice might prophet-like unclose Its bonds, and bid those waters start, But why disturb their sweet repose? Spare, lady, spare the Poet's heart! It cannot be that one so fair, The idol of the courtly throng-- Would condescend his lot to share, And bless the lowly child of song, Would realize the soul-wrought dreams, That of his being form a part, And mingle with his sweetest themes; Then spare, O spare, the poet's heart! The poet's heart! ye know it not, Its hopes, its sympathies, its fears; The joys that glad its humble lot; The griefs that melt it into tears. 'Tis like some flower, that from the ground Scarce dares to lift its petals up, Though honeyed sweets are ever found Indwelling in its golden cup. Love comes to him in sweeter guise, Than he appears to other men-- Heav'n-born, descended from the skies, And longing to return again. But bid him not with me abide, If he can no relief impart; Ah, hide those smiles, those glances hide, And spare, O spare, the Poet's heart! THE RETURN TO SCENES OF CHILDHOOD. BY GRETTA. "You have come again," said the dark old trees, As I entered my childhood's home. "You have come again," said the whispering breeze, "And wherefore have you come? "When last I played round your youthful brow Its morning's light was there, But you bring back a shadow upon it now, And a saddened look of care. "Have you come, have you left earth's noisy strife, To seek your favorite flowers? They are gone, like the hopes which lit your life, Like your childhood's sunny hours.