Then since I have loved both in shape and shine Under its sheltering boughs to recline— Since what I once love I love to the end, Be it tree, bird or flower—book, music or friend— When death cometh I fain would be There laid to sleep, Lowly and deep, In the shade of the dark pine-tree. * * * * * GEMS FROM LATE READINGS. BY MRS. GORE. But few of those who examine the reminiscences of their own hearts, and the incidents of their own lives, will deny that scarcely a given moment of their youth admitted of swearing to a solitary object of attachment. Till the heart throbs with the master-passion which impels a man to seek a partner for life by an impulse as overmastering as that which prompts an heroic action, or generates a _chef-d’œuvre_, it is pretty sure to experience a succession of feverish spasms; the commencement of one of which is as hazily interblended with the conclusion of another, as with nocturnal darkness the glimmerings of a summer-day dawn, when “night is at odds with morning, which is which.” * * * * * BY J. WESTLAND MARSTON, ESQ. LOVE’S VICTORY. I was a bard—she listened to my lay As there her questioning soul had answer found. She stooped to pluck my wild-flowers on the way, Fancies that teem from the prolific ground In the heart’s solstice—in whose inner light Through all the pleasant paths of earth we wound. And sometimes through her music of delight An undersound of sadness softly stole, And floated ’twixt the fountain pure and bright Of her deep joy and heaven—a cloud of dole That almost seemed relief—for scarce below The noon of rapture is allowed the soul. Hence even in life’s summer sunbeams throw Shades on the very path they glorify— And ecstasy would perish but for wo. I asked not if she loved me; for reply To every doubt, I read her glance and tone, And made them oracles of destiny. They whispered love—I deemed that love my own: Nor guessed that in the mirror of my song She saw an idol face to me unknown. Nor that the chords of my devotion, strung To feeling’s highest tension for her sake, And on whose notes with breathless hush she hung, Were prized for memories which they did awake— To her an echo what to me was life. O God, the strings that quivered would not break!— He came! Can I forget that inward strife Which made me calm?—The mightiest grief is dumb. They met:—he clasped her—called her plighted wife!—