The occasion was indeed worthy of the brilliant pen of the gifted authoress. Its reading produced various effects upon its auditors. Some wondered at its beauty, some were impressed with the honor done. Those of sensibility wiped their overflowing eyes, wondering whether it was the intrinsic beauty of the poem or its peculiar appropriateness that so moved them. All felt its influence, for the children of the heart, like the carrier-pigeons, fly always to their native home. A toast! a toast! To the bride and the poetess—and on went the feast. The hour for separation approaches. The rolling ocean is to divide the daughter from her tender mother, beloved father, and friends. Their pangs of parting cast the only gloom upon the occasion. But now all is over. The business of every day life, with its noise, and bustle, and heartlessness, is again resumed. The scenes just described have left their subjects of contemplation too lightly treated in this day of frivolity and Fourierism, viz., the sacredness and responsibilities of marriage, and the affectionate devotedness of loving, trusting woman. * * * * * INVOCATION TO SLEEP. BY ENNA DUVAL. THROUGH the night’s weary vigils My pulse doth keep time With the clock’s never ceasing And passionless chime. Sweet Hope with my spirit In daylight doth dwell, But Sadness at nightfall Weaves o’er me her spell. In the twilight of dream-land Dear forms hover near, And their sweet, tender love tones Sooth each rising fear. Come, come to my pillow, Thou dreamy-eyed Sleep! For thou bringest with thee Charms potent and deep. Through my casement the moon beams, I look on the sky, And my fancy there pictures Sleep’s form soaring high. I see in the white clouds Her head drooping low, Her thin, trailing garments. Her poppy-bound brow. She is queen of the dream-land, That pure, blest retreat: And the loved that are parted In spirit there meet. Come, come to my pillow, Thou poppy-crowned queen! Bear off my sad spirit, Of Hope let it dream. Cruel Love by my pillow Keeps hovering near: Of the absent he murmurs— Quick starts the sad tear. I know that the fluttering Of his tiny wing Drives away the dear forms Sleep only can bring. For with sleep come the loved ones, In dream-land we meet, And our spirits there mingling, Hold commune most sweet. Come, come to my pillow, Thou poppy-crowned queen! And bring to my spirit Sweet Hope’s soothing dream. * * * * * MINNA. BY W. S. SOUTHGATE.