Jessie Lincoln became the beloved and lovely wife of Lieutenant George Jones! I do not know but she would have married Mr. Style, if, like too many others, he had not lingered in the vestibule of the temple of Hymen till another hand lighted the torch, and proudly stood beside her at the altar. The heart of Jessie Lincoln was irrevocably given, with all its wealth of love to the young naval officer, and the minister was left to regret his too confident and presumptuous delay when regrets were unavailing. But Jessie was a “mourning bride”—for only a few weeks after her marriage, her noble and beloved patroness sickened and died, leaving Jessie and her husband the proprietors of her tasteful and elegant mansion, and the principal heirs to her estate. “But did Mr. Style—such a fine young man, and so royally gifted, consign himself to a gloomy celibacy, and live and die a bachelor—‘which being interpreted,’ is _half a man_?” Nay, reader, I’ll hasten to tell you that Emilie Jones, that wild, hair-brained, passionate, but truly generous and high-minded Emilie, learned lessons of gentleness and piety, and married—because they mutually and earnestly loved—the young clergyman of the church of N.; and by bequest of Mrs. Tower, the beautiful residence of the Varleys became the village manse, and their lovely home! * * * * * TO INEZ.—AT FLORENCE. BY S. D. ANDERSON. I wonder how thou look’st, In thy home far, far away, Where thy voice, like Summer’s streamlet, Is singing all the day. Is thine eye as bright as ever? Have thy footsteps lost their bound, That they had when last we listened To the moonlit ocean’s sound? Has thy young heart quit its dreaming, ’Neath thy own pure sunny skies, In those nights when stars are vieing With the lustre of thine eyes? When the dreams of youth were flinging Their roses round thy way, ’Mid the perfumed airs of spring-time— That herald in life’s May. Say, does the Arno run as clear, Beside thy palace walls, As when upon its waves we looked From out thy father’s halls? Music was there when last I pressed My lips upon thy brow. And left thee—eye, and voice, and form, Are all but _memory_ now. But memory, such as o’er the heart Its rainbow arch still throws, As bright as when on ocean’s breast Its sunlit beauty glows— Is with me now; the forest shade, The brook, the flower, the tree, The tones of music ’mid the night, Are peopled all with thee. Then, Inez, in that distant clime, If still thou think’st of me, At evening when thou goest out Upon the tranquil sea, Our souls shall meet—for kindred ones, That bow at memory’s shrine, Oft meet in dreams, and thus my heart Shall often join with thine.