ALONG the rugged path of life, So lonely, wild, and drear; Where nought is heard but toil and strife, And nought but cares appear; And where, for every springing flower, A thousand thorns arise; And joy's uncertain, fleeting hour, Like meteor glows, and dies, There is a light that brightly shines Mid passion's wildest rage, A charm around the heart that twines, From childhood up to age; That light, that charm, when storms are nigh, Like heaven's own beams appear. The light, it glows from Beauty's eye; The charm is Woman's tear. The monarch on his lofty throne, The lowly village swain, Alike their magic influence own, And bow beneath their reign. When wavers Hope's unsteady light, And dark is Reason's ray, Oh, then, with radiance pure and bright, They guide our dreary way. E'en at the last and solemn hour, When shadows dark appal, The spirit owns their mystic power, And lingers at their call. And when above the turf-crowned grave, Its head the willow rears, Brighter and greener does it wave, Bedewed by Woman's tears. THE QUOD CORRESPONDENCE. Harry Harson. CHAPTER ELEVENTH. PACING up and down the small room, and muttering to himself in broken sentences, with his brows knit, at one time hugging his arms tight to his breast, at another flinging them over his head, snapping his fingers, or rubbing his hands together, and chuckling to himself, in that low, mocking tone which was peculiar to him, Rust spent the short interval that elapsed between the departure and return of Kornicker.