Gentle reader—while we write the pale, exhausted moon is setting behind the distant ridge of Talcott mountain. The tall tower of Montevideo stands like a lonely, belated giant, in full relief against the silver-gray western sky. Our hair is damp with dew—our numb and weary fingers can hardly retain the blunt pencil with which we have indited the preceding extravagances. There is a faint, ruddy glow in the east—we hear the neigh of Aurora’s steeds. Good night then, dear, lunatic reader. May the morn find you sane—the night mad again—and long may it be ere the soft light of the full moon shall rest upon the green sod of your grave, and glow, reflected from the marble of your monument. * * * * * TO MISS MARTHA GRIFFITH. BY G. D. P. Beautiful girl, I have wandered far, Toward the rising sun and the evening star, I have roamed ’mid the Northern wastes of snow, And strayed where the soft magnolias blow, But I never gazed on a face as bright As thine, sweet spirit of young delight. Beautiful girl, thou art bright and fair As an angel-shape in the moonlight air, No shadow rests on thy brow of snow Save that of thy tresses drooping low, Love’s own dear light is wandering oft O’er thy gentle lip of carmine soft, Thy lovely cheek, where the rich, red glow Of the warm blood melts through the virgin snow, Is sweetly blending in one rich dye The woven beauties of earth and sky; Truth, holy truth in its freshness dwells Deep, deep in thy dark eyes’ shaded wells, And fancies wild from their clear depths gleam, Like shadows of stars from a trembling stream, And thy thoughts are a dream of Eden’s bowers, And thy words are garlands of flowers, bright flowers. Beautiful girl, I have seen thee move A floating creature of joy and love, As light as a mist on the sunrise gale, Or the buoyant sway of a bridal veil, Till I almost looked to see thee rise Like a soaring thought to the free blue skies, Or melt away in the thin blue air, Like a vision of fancy painted there. Thy low sweet voice, as it thrills around, Seems less a sound than a dream of sound; Softly and wildly its clear notes swell Like the spirit-tones of a silver bell, And the lips whence the fairy music flows Is to fancy’s eye like a speaking rose. Beautiful, beautiful girl, thou art A vision of joy to the throbbing heart, A star sent down from a world of bliss And all undimmed by the shades of this; A rainbow pictured by love’s own sun On the clouds of being, beautiful one.