A little common weed, a simple shell, From the waste margent of a classic sea; A flower that grew where some great empire fell, Worthless themselves, are rich to Memory. And thus these lines are precious, for the hand That penned their music crumbles into mould; And the hot brain that shaped them now is cold In its own ashes, like a blackened brand.-- But where the fiery soul that wove the spell; Weeping with trailing wings beside his tomb? Or stretched and tortured on the racks of Hell Dark-scowling at the ministers of doom?-- Peace! this is but a dream, there cannot be More suffering for him in Eternity! R.H. STODDARD * * * * * FROM THE KNICKERBOCKER MAGAZINE. THE ACTUAL. Away! no more shall shadows entertain; No more shall fancy paint and dreams delude; No more shall these illusions of the brain Divert me with their pleasing interlude; Forever are ye banished, idle joys; Welcome, stern labor-life--this is no world for toys! Blessed labor-life! victorious only he Who in its lists doth valiantly contend; For labor in itself is victory; Yield never to repose; but let the end Of Life's great battle be--the end of life: A glorious immortality shall crown the strife. R.B.X. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of International Weekly Miscellany, Vol. I, No. 6, by Various