in them, at some rude and simple strain which, sung by
loved lips, made the charm of our careless and happy childhood. We
have stood awe-stricken before the walls of the Colosseum, at Rome,
and dreamt of it for evermore! But we have likewise paused opposite
the Colosseum in the Regent's Park, investing it in the dim twilight
with a thousand beauties that made it an object of interest. We can
well remember lingering in the neighborhood, before the mimic church,
or convent, as we had been taught to call it, of St. Catharine, with
the moonshine gleaming through its arches, and the flickering lights
appearing here and there in the diamond-paned windows, watching
eagerly for the appearance of those white-robed nuns with which our
childish fancy had peopled that quiet place--wondering that they never
came. And amid all the architectural glory of foreign churches and
cathedrals, since visited, have failed again to realize that simple
love of, and faith in the beautiful, which then invested every scene
with its peculiar charm. Where the mind makes its own picturesque, it
never yet failed to find materials, and is often gifted with a strange
power to charm others into seeing with its own loving eyes! So the
poet immortalizes the humble home of his boyhood, and in after years
men make pilgrimages to the time-worn stile, the

Rustic bridge--the willow tree;
Bathing its tresses in the quiet brook;

which his genius has redeemed from obscurity, and rendered hallowed
spots for evermore.

BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY.

Oh! tell me not of lofty fate,
Of glory's deathless name;
The bosom love leaves desolate
Has naught to do with fame.

Vainly philosophy would soar--
Love's height it may not reach;
The heart soon learns a sweeter lore
Than ever sage could teach.

The cup may bear a poisoned draught,
The altar may be cold,
But yet the chalice will be quaffed--
The shrine sought as of old.

Man's sterner nature turns away
To seek ambition's goal;
Wealth's glittering gifts, and pleasure's ray,
May charm his weary soul;--

But woman knows one only dream--
That broken--all is o'er;
For on life's dark and sluggish stream
Hope's sunbeam rests no more.

BY LADY GEORGIANA FULLERTON.

How strange it is to those who are in some sense new to the world, to
see the way in which time plasters over wounds which we