BY CLARA MORETON. “But of all the pictures, there were none as beautiful as ‘The Orphan,’ by an unknown artist. The expression of _utter loneliness_ depicted upon the serene, but pensive face, and that of the soft blue eyes, revealing the heart’s yearnings for the love it had lost, were touchingly beautiful.”—LETTER. I am alone! in all the world There’s none to care for me— None who would miss my sad-voiced tone If I should cease to be; I am alone! yet in my heart The founts of love o’erflow, For all the lovely things of earth— For all that’s bright below. The tree that waveth from the woods— The vine that clasps it round— The bird that buildeth there its nest— The wild flower on the ground— I love them all; they need it not, For they are not alone; They know no grief—no loneliness— No joys forever flown. The melodies of earth I love; The music breathing sea, The wild wind’s loud and clarion notes, The streamlet’s laughing glee. Strange chords within my heart are swept; Their echoes linger long, Till I forget my lonely fate, In gushes wild of song. Oh, earth is very beautiful In sunshine or in storm! I only wish I had one heart— One gentle loving form, Which in dark hours of sadness Would ever cling to me, Even as clasps the humble vine About the wild-wood tree. * * * * * THE END OF ROMANCE. BY MRS. LYDIA JANE PEIRSON. She was beautiful, and pure of heart, but from her very infancy a child of romance. In this short sentence is included a history of suffering, and a broken-hearted death. I will call her Grace. She was my near relative, and I loved her very dearly, though I could not always sympathize with her wild idealities. Sometimes, when we went out with a merry band of our school companions, to range the hills, or gather flowers by the river’s brink, I have missed her from our company, and on searching around, discovered her seated in some sheltered nook, or on some picturesque eminence, so wrapped in contemplation, that it was with difficulty she could be aroused from her musings. I used to fear that she was laboring in the incipient stage of some mental disease, and to dread that she would become crazy. As soon as she could read, she seized with avidity upon works of romance, and sentimental poetry, and would talk so much transcendentalism, that I used to doubt whether she understood herself, or knew what she was wishing to express.