of her own thoughts she starts at her own imaginings, when she shrinks even from her own reflected loveliness in the secrecy of home; or abroad, trembles at the intrusive touch, or familiar language, of him who _should be_ her guide, her protector from evil. That gift was the _blush_. THE WIDOWED BRIDE. By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens. The Morn awoke in Hindostan, And blushing, left the couch of Night, While soon her rosy smiles began, To flood the dewy earth with light. While yet the sultry day was young, Came forth a happy bridal band, With sunny smiles and English tongue, Which spoke them of a distant land; They gathered round an altar-stone, Erected to the one Most High, Standing in solitude alone, Mid signs of dark idolatry. Then two came slowly from the crowd; _He_ with a bearing bold and proud, A haughty smile and flashing eye, Darkling with love's intensity; While she, the high-born English bride, Drew closer to that one dear side; Her eyelids drooped, her cheek grew pale As snow, beneath the bridal veil, As if the weight of her own bliss Were all too much of happiness, To thrill her heart and light her eye Beneath another's scrutiny. On crimson cushions dropped with gold The youthful pair together bow; Before that priest in surplice-fold They clasp their trembling fingers now; A prayer is heard--the oath is said-- That gentle creature lifts her head-- A voice has thrilled into her heart, Like music breathed to it apart,-- To lie there an abiding spell, To haunt forever memory's cell-- To mingle with her latest breath And light the very wing of death. Her vow was uttered timidly-- With half a murmur, half a sigh; Yet the low faltering sound confessed The love that brooded in her breast. The golden ring is on her hand-- She is pronounced a wedded bride; Oh say, why does she lingering stand So long that altar-stone beside? And whence the misty tears that dim The sunny azure of her eye? Why leans her slender form on him? Why does she sob so bitterly? Well may she weep, that fair young bride; For up the Ganges' golden tide, Mid jungles deep, where beasts of prey With pestilence hold deadly sway, Where the wild waters fiercest sweep, And serpents in their venom sleep, Beneath each dewy leaf and flower, That gentle bride must build her bower. In the cool shadow of the shore, With snowy streamers floating wide, To the light dipping of the oar, The budgerow swept o'er the tide; The soft breeze ling'ring at her prow, Where many a garland graceful hung, In hues of purple, gold and snow, And on the rippling waters flung An odor sweet and delicate, As that which all imprisoned lies, Unknown to man as his own fate, Within the flowers of Paradise.