'THE passion which concentrates its strength and beauty upon one object, is a rich and terrible stake, the end whereof is death. The living light of existence is burnt out in an hour, and what remains? The dust and the darkness!' L. E. L. ENDOW'D with all that heart could wish, With all that wealth could bring, I 'mov'd amid a glittering throng,' A vain and worshipped thing. From myriads who beset my path, My heart selected thee; Though lips of love thy follies nam'd, Those faults _I_ could not see. That wealth was mine, I heeded not, And cared not to be told; To one I deem'd of priceless worth, How mean a gift was gold! My beauty was a brighter dower, And worthier far to be The vain oblation of the hour That saw me pledged to thee! Thy bride--for thus was plighted faith, And pledge and promise kept; I smil'd deridingly on those Who look'd on me, and wept: I dar'd my doom; that reckless smile, Its memory haunts me still, Recurring 'mid each change to add Intensity to ill! Amid each change--and change to me Has been with evil fraught, Yet long I vainly sought to gild The ruin thou hadst wrought; Beneath the stern, unjust rebuke, Love's holy silence kept, And at a cold and thankless shrine, I worship'd while I wept! I learn'd to look upon the brow Where stern indifference sat, But love--the love a rival shared-- I could not witness that! I saw thee on another smile, I mark'd the mute caress, And blush'd in agony to think I could not love thee less! The shaft has entered!--other hand Had vainly aimed the blow; With thee I had unshrinking met A world of want or wo; With thee I fearlessly had dar'd Each form of earthly ill, And 'mid the desert, bird and flower Had gaily met me still. The shaft has entered!--even thou Wilt weep to learn my fate; Oh, would that I could spare the pang Which then will come too late! Alas for life, which from the past No closing light can borrow, Whose story is a tale of sin, Of suffering, and sorrow! REBECCA. FRANCIS MITFORD. NUMBER TWO. LONDON!--in solid magnificence--in all that the most visionary dreams of wealth can imagine--where is her parallel! Paris may surpass her in grace; the never-ending sound of joy that echoes through the streets of the French metropolis, may pleasingly contrast with the commercial solemnity which pervades her; but she alone has achieved that imperial crown which cities like her only can wear, and which is only to be won by centuries of untiring enterprise.