Notwithstanding this weakness, I must ever think of her as a fine sample of womanhood, born to shed light and life on some palace home. Had she known more of God and the universe, she would not have given way where so many have conquered. But peace be with her; she now, perhaps, has entered into a larger freedom, which is knowledge. With her died a great interest in life to me. Since her I have never seen a Bandit's Bride. She, indeed, turned out to be only a merchant's. Sylvain is married again to a fair and laughing girl, who will not die, probably, till their marriage grows a "golden marriage." Aunt Z. had with her some papers of Mariana's, which faintly shadow forth the thoughts that engaged her in the last days. One of these seems to have been written when some faint gleam had been thrown across the path only to make its darkness more visible. It seems to have been suggested by remembrance of the beautiful ballad, _Helen of Kirconnel Lee_, which once she loved to recite, and in tones that would not have sent a chill to the heart from which it came. "Death Opens her sweet white arms, and whispers, Peace; Come, say thy sorrows in this bosom! This Will never close against thee, and my heart, Though cold, cannot be colder much than man's." DISAPPOINTMENT. "I wish I were where Helen lies." A lover in the times of old, Thus vents his grief in lonely sighs, And hot tears from a bosom cold. But, mourner for thy martyred love, Couldst thou but know what hearts must feel. Where no sweet recollections move, Whose tears a desert fount reveal! When "in thy arms bird Helen fell," She died, sad man, she died for thee; Nor could the films of death dispel Her loving eye's sweet radiancy. Thou wert beloved, and she had loved, Till death alone the whole could tell; Death every shade of doubt removed, And steeped the star in its cold well. On some fond breast the parting soul Relies--earth has no more to give; Who wholly loves has known the whole; The wholly loved doth truly live. But some, sad outcasts from this prize, Do wither to a lonely grave; All hearts their hidden love despise, And leave them to the whelming wave. They heart to heart have never pressed, Nor hands in holy pledge have given, By father's love were ne'er caressed, Nor in a mother's eye saw heaven. A flowerless and fruitless tree, A dried-up stream, a mateless bird, They live, yet never living be, They die, their music all unheard. I wish I were where Helen lies, For there I could not be alone; But now, when this dull body dies, The spirit still will make its moan.