Thou art lost to me for ever,--I have lost thee, Isadore, Thy head will never rest upon my loyal bosom more. Thy tender eyes will never more gaze fondly into mine, Nor thine arms around me lovingly and trustingly entwine. Thou art dead and gone, loving wife,--thy heart is still and cold,-- And I at one stride have become most comfortless and old; Of our whole world of love and song, thou wast the only light, A star, whose setting left behind, ah! me, how dark a night! Thou art lost to me, for ever, Isadore. _Albert Pike._ * * * * * The Cypress is the emblem of mourning. _Shakspeare._ * * * * * Alas, for earthly joy, and hope, and love, Thus stricken down, e’en in their holiest hour! What deep, heart-wringing anguish must they prove, Who live to weep the blasted tree or flower! Oh, wo, deep wo to earthly love’s fond trust, When all it once has worshipped lies in dust! _Mrs. Embury._ WALL-FLOWER.... _Fidelity in Adversity_. This flower derives its name from the circumstance of its growing upon old walls, the casements and battlements of ancient castles, and among the ruins of abbeys. The troubadors were accustomed to wearing a bouquet of Wall-flowers, as the emblem of an affection which is proof against time and the frowns of fortune. * * * * * _Adah._--Alas! thou sinnest now, my Cain; thy words Sound impious in mine ears. _Cain._--Then leave me! _Adah._--Never, Though thy God left thee! _Byron._ * * * * * An emblem true thou art Of love’s enduring lustre given To cheer a lonely heart. _Barton._ * * * * * Flower of the solitary place! Gray Ruin’s golden crown, That lendest melancholy grace To haunts of old renown; Thou mantlest o’er the battlements By strife or storm decayed; And fillest up each envious rent Time’s canker-tooth hath made. _Moir._ * * * * * Though human, thou didst not deceive me; Though woman, thou didst not forsake; Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me; Though slandered, thou never couldst shake; Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me; Though parted, it was not to fly; Though watchful, ’twas not to defame me; Nor, mute, that the world might belie. _Byron._ * * * * * Yes, love! my breast, at sorrow’s call, Shall tremble like thine own; If from those eyes the tear-drops fall, They shall not fall alone. Our souls, like heaven’s aerial bow, Blend every light within their glow, Of joy or sorrow known; And grief, divided with thy heart, Were sweeter far than joy apart. _Anon._ HAWTHORN.... _Hope_.