I could have embraced him for that touch of pride; and
felt assured that whatever the penalty might be which he was doomed to
suffer, that he had "a heart for any fate!" What that fate was I have
had no means of knowing, for I have never since heard of poor Penn--.

A SONG.

BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

Bring me the juice of the honey fruit,
The large translucent, amber-hued,
Rare grapes of southern isles, to suit
The luxury that fills my mood.

And bring me only such as grew
Where rarest maidens tent the bowers,
And only fed by rain and dew
Which first had bathed a bank of flowers.

They must have hung on spicy trees
In airs of far enchanted vales,
And all night heard the ecstasies
Of noble-throated nightingales:

So that the virtues which belong
To flowers may therein tasted be--
And that which hath been thrilled with song
May give a thrill of song to me.

For I would wake that string for thee
Which hath too long in silence hung,
And sweeter than all else should be
The song which in thy praise is sung.

THE ENCHANTED ISLE.

BY MRS. LYDIA JANE PEIRSON.

Far in the ocean of the Night
There lyeth an Enchanted Isle,
Within a veil of mellow light,
That blesseth like affection's smile.

It tingeth with a rosy hue
All objects in that country fair,
Like summer twilight, when the dew
Is trembling in the fragrant air.

And there is music evermore,
That seemeth sleeping on the breeze.
Like sound of sweet bells from the shore
Lingering along the summer seas.

And there are rivers, bowers, and groves,
And fountains fringed with blossomed weeds,
And all sweet birds that sing their loves
'Mid stately flowers or tasseled reeds.

All that is beautiful of earth,
All that is valued, all that's dear,
All that is pure of mortal birth,
Lives in immortal beauty here.

All tender buds that ever grew
For us on Hope's ephemeral tree,
All loves, all joys, that e'er we knew,
Bloom in that country gloriously.

There is no parting there, no change,
No death, no fading, no decay;
No hand is cold, no voice is strange,
No eye is dark--or turned away.

To us, who daily toil and weep,
How welcome is Night's starry smile,
When in the fairy barge of Sleep
We visit the Encha