For once wood violets had grown In their own garden bowers, But now, alas! how rarely bloom For them fresh wayside flowers! * * * * * MEMORIES. BY GEORGE D. PRENTICE. Once more, once more, my Mary dear, I sit by that lone stream, Where first within thy timid ear I breathed love’s burning dream; The birds we loved still tell their tales Of music on each spray, And still the wild rose decks the vale— But thou art far away. In vain thy vanished form I seek, By wood and stream and dell, And tears of anguish bathe my cheek Where tears of rapture fell; And yet beneath these wild-wood bowers Dear thoughts my soul employ, For in the memories of past hours, There is a mournful joy. Upon the air thy gentle words Around me seem to thrill, Like sounds upon the wind-harp’s chords When all the winds are still, Or like the low and soul-like swell Of that wild spirit-tone Which haunts the hollow of the bell When its sad chime is done. I seem to hear thee speak my name In sweet low murmurs now, I seem to feel thy breath of flame Upon my cheek and brow; On my cold lips I feel thy kiss, Thy heart to mine is laid— Alas that such a dream of bliss Like other dreams must fade! * * * * * THE BRIDE OF THE BATTLE. A SOUTHERN NOVELET. BY W. GILMORE SIMMS. (_Continued from page 29._) CHAPTER IV.