Ianthe! o'er thine early tomb The Summer's winds are gently blowing, And fair white flowers, the first to bloom, Around thy narrow home are growing; And o'er it twines the changeless myrtle, Fit emblem of thy spirit's love! And near it mourns the gentle turtle, And I, how like to that lone dove! While every leaf, and flower, and tree Is fraught with memory of thee. And oh! if true, who tell us death Can never quench its purer fires— That not with life's last faltering breath, The soul's immortal love expires; If heart meets kindred heart above, Shall we not greet each other there? Say, was not ours a deathless love? Too deep, too strong for life to bear! Then let us hope to meet again, Ere long, in guiltless transport there, With bliss for all the grief and pain We here on earth were doomed to share, And love on, through unending years, Uncheck'd by time, unchang'd by tears. A TOUR TO THE ISTHMUS: _Filled in from the Pencillings of an English Artist_. BY A YANKEE DAUBER. Painting is welcome;— The painting is almost the natural man; For since dishonor traffics with man's nature, He is but outside. These pencilled figures are Even such as they give out. _Timon of Athens_. III. Chagres—The Castle—Mine Host—No English and no Spanish for two—Mule Riding—A Fit-out for Panama—Up in the World—The Stone Ladder—A Yarn. It is now some weeks since I opened my note book, and I confess the cause to be pure idleness alone. However, my pencil meanwhile has not lain dormant, as my portfolio will convince you. After all, _cui bono?_ Why should a fellow be expected to write a journal on shipboard? The record of one day upon a voyage is the record of all others. This day we see “a booby,” (an animal not rare, you will say, on shore) the next, perhaps, a turtle, and on the next we may be amused with a short skirmish between a whale and a sword-fish, or a more deadly one between contending shoals of hostile sharks: then we see “Cape Fly-away,” and after that we see——nothing! Our voyage to Chagres, instead of five days, was extended to fifteen. The pilots live on board, and make a point of lying out for a wind or a tide, until they have laid in sustenance enough to last them while another ship shall demand their services, and then convoy their patient victims into port. But we got in at last, and were thankful.