population.

The Emperor Adrian, in a letter to Calexines, writes that he is
drinking the juice of the Mandrake to render him amorous: hence
it was called Love-apple.

It grows in Italy, Spain, and the Levant.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS

TO ISABEL

A Beautiful Little Girl.

Fair as some sea-child, in her coral bower,
Decked with the rare, rich treasures of the deep;
Mild as the spirit of the dream whose power
Bears back the infant's soul to heaven, in sleep
Brightens the hues of summer's first-born flower
Pure as the tears repentant mourners weep
O'er deeds to which the siren, Sin, beguiled,--
Art thou, sweet, smiling, bright-eyed cherub child.

Thy presence is a spell of holiness,
From which unhallowed thoughts shrink blushing back,--
Thy smile is a warm light that shines to bless,
As beams the beacon o'er the wanderer's track,--
Thy voice is music, at whose sounds Distress
Unbinds her writhing victim from the rack
Of misery, and charmed by what she hears,
Forgets her woes, and smiles upon her tears.

And when I look upon thee, bearing now
The promise of such loveliness, I ask
If time will blight, that promise; if thy brow,
So sunny now, will learn to wear the mask
Of hollow smiles, or cold deceit, whilst thou
Art learning in thy soul the bitter task
Time teaches to all bosoms, when the glow
Of hope is o'er--but this I may not know.

My path will not be near to thine through life,--
Kind ones will guard and fondly shelter thee;
Me bitterness awaits, and care and strife,
And all that sorrow has of agony;
My future, as my past was, will be rife
With heartaches, and the pangs that "pass not by;"
Each hour shall give thee some new pleasure; years,
Long years can bring me only toil 'and tears.

'Tis meet that it should be so,--I have made
A wreck of my own happiness, and cast
Across my heart, in youth, the dull, deep shade
That wrinkled age flings over all at last
But let it go,--I have too long delayed
The remedy, and what is past is past;--
And could I live those vanished moments o'er,
My heart would wander as it strayed before.

I know not how it is,--my heart is stern,
And little giv'n to thoughts of tenderness;
Yet looking on thy young brow