“Wo worth the day,” he cried, “Sweetest Lenora! When I left thee, my bride For the false Mora.” Then in her wistful eyes, Blue as yon heaven, He saw her soul arise, Sighing “Forgiven!” But her pale, parted lips Silently quiver, And in Death’s dark eclipse Falls she forever! Sad fell thy sunny ray, Rosy Aurora, Where Alvarado lay By his Lenora. * * * * * TO A. R. HOW many nights, old friend, in earlier times, When we were boys, we sat together nights, Poring on books, with ever-new delights, Fresh, dewy prose, and sweet and flowery rhymes; I looked for you, as sure as evening came— I knew your footstep on the stair, I knew Your sudden rap, and said it must be you— For step and rap were evermore the same. We talked of every thing a little while, And then I took to writing simple themes, And you to reading—and I could but smile (Hunting for rhymes, perplexed and lost in dreams,) To see you knit your thought-contracted brow, And when you caught my eye, I wrote again—as now! R. H. S. * * * * * FANNY DAY’S PRESENTIMENT. BY MARIE ROSEAU. (MY dear Rose, you ask me to write something which Mr. Graham will print, for your sake; because it is the best Magazine extant, and because you subscribe for it. I will try.) Do you believe in presentiments? Two summers ago Fanny Day and myself visited Caroline Alden in her country home, about one hundred miles from Philadelphia. The morning previous to that fixed upon for our departure, after vainly using all the ingenuity and strength of which I was capable, to stow away in the top of my trunk three dresses, one large shawl, nine bound books, a portfolio, and the four last numbers of “Graham,” I was forced to the conclusion that one-half the articles named must be left behind. Then came the serious business of deciding which of them should be rejected. “Couldn’t I leave one of the dresses?” No, that was out of the question. If I meant to ramble over rocks and hills the five (two were already deposited in the lower part of the trunk,) would be barely sufficient to last me through the visit. “Suppose you leave some of the books—those two large ones, for instance?” suggested one of my sisters, called upon to aid me in the dilemma. “Oh no, indeed! I could not think of taking fewer books. Those two volumes of Waldie in particular must go, for Caroline was so anxious to read ‘Modern Societies’ and ‘Home.’” “But the others?”