Then all day, in every opening chalice Drains their honey-drops the reveling bee, Till the dove-winged Sleep makes thee her palace, Filled with song-like murmurs, Tulip-Tree! In thine arms repose the dreams enchanted Which in childhood’s heart were nestled long, And, beneath thee, still my brain is haunted With their tones of vanished song. Oh, while Earth’s full heart is throbbing over With its wealth of light and life and joy, Who can dream the seasons that shall cover With their frost the visions of the boy? Who can paint the years that downward darken, While the splendid morning bids aspire, Or the turf upon his coffin hearken, When his pulses leap with fire! Wind of June, that sweep’st the rolling meadow, Thou shalt wail in branches rough and bare, While the tree, o’erhung with storm and shadow, Writhes and creaks amid the gusty air. All his leaves, like shields of fairies scattered, Then shall drop before the Northwind’s spears, And his limbs, by hail and tempest battered, Feel the weight of wintry years. Yet, why cloud the rapture and the glory Of the Beautiful, that still remains? Life, alas! will soon reverse the story, And its sunshine gild forsaken plains. Let thy blossoms in the morning brighten, Happy heart, as doth the Tulip-Tree, While the daisy’s snows around us whiten, Drifted down the sloping lea! * * * * * TRUE UNTO DEATH. BY MRS. CAROLINE H. BUTLER. PART I. A gentle breeze swept through the vine-latticed casement of a small apartment, filling it with all the balmy odors of a June evening, while the moonbeams stealing softly on its track, broke through the leafy screen in fitful shadows. The sighing of the wind through the long, slender branches of the willows—the plaintive cry of the whip-poor-will, and at a little distance the murmuring sound of water, as the waves of the lake broke gently upon the shore—all were in unison with the sad hearts of the two—a youth and maiden, who, in that little room bathed by the moonbeams and the breeze, were now about to be parted, perhaps forever. Deep anguish was depicted on the countenance of the young man—calm resolve and pious resignation on that of his companion, who, with her hands clasped before her, and her deep mournful eyes fixed tenderly upon his, said, “No, Richard, it cannot be—urge me no more to a course which seems to me both cruel and unnatural. Think you this sacrifice is not as painful to me as to you, dear Richard?” she added, taking his hand and pressing it to her lips, while a tear trickled slowly down her pale cheek; “then reproach me not—call me not heartless, unfeeling; rather encourage me to fulfill faithfully the part which duty allots me—will you not, Richard?”