Grief's frenzy, when it melts, of thee will rave, As of a thing too winsome to decay, And thus Laertes at his sister's grave Bids violets spring from her unsullied clay. Lowly incentive to celestial thought! We ne'er with listless step can pass thee by, For thou with tender embassies art fraught, Like the fond beaming of a northern eye. Hence thou art sacred to our human needs; Laid on the maiden's white and throbbing breast Thy delicate odor for the absent pleads, And mourners strew thee where their idols rest. In those wild hours when feeling chafed its bound, And deepened more that utterance was denied, In thee persuasive messengers I found That reached the haven of love's wayward tide. And I have borne thee to the couch of death When naught remained to do but wait and pray, And marked the sudden flush and quickened breath That proved thee dear though all had passed away! THEY MAY TELL OF A CLIME. TO ---- ----. BY CHARLES E. TRAIL. They may tell of a clime more delightful than this, The land of the orange, the myrtle and vine; Where the roses blush red beneath Zephyr's warm kiss, And the bright beams of summer unceasingly shine. But I know a sweet valley, a beautiful spot, Where the turf is so green, and the breezes are bland; And methinks, if you'll share there my ivy-crowned cot, There'll be no place on earth like my own native land. A palace 'neath Italy's star-covered sky, Unblest by thy presence would desolate be; But cheered by the light of thy soft beaming eye, Ah! sweet were a tent in the desert with thee. For 'tis love--O! 'tis love which thus hallows the ground, And brightens the gloom of the anchorite's cell; And the Eden of earth--wheresoe'er it be found-- Is the spot where the heart's cherished idol doth dwell. Then come to my cottage--though cool be the shade, And verdant the sod 'neath the wide-spreading bough-- Where the wood-dove its nest 'mid the foliage hath made, Yet lone is that cottage, and desolate now. For as the green forest, bereft of the dove, No more with sweet echoes would musical be-- Even so is the rose-mantled bower of love, Unblest and uncheered, if not gladdened by thee. A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM BY C. A. WASHBURN. I dreamed that for a long time I courted Charlotte--what need of dreaming? It was true. Nevertheless I dreamed that for a long time I courted Charlotte, and at last, which was not true, married her. And I thought that Charlotte and I lived very happily together. She loved me better than she ever thought she could before we were married, for I loved her exceedingly, and was very kind to her.