altogether. Come, they are waiting
for me."

(To be continued.)

* * * * *

THE MOURNER'S LAMENT.

BY PARK BENJAMIN.

The night-breeze fans my faded cheek,
And lifts my damp and flowing hair--
And lo! methinks sweet voices speak,
Like harp-strings to the viewless air;
While in the sky's unmeasured scroll,
The burning stars forever roll,
Changeless as heaven, and deeply bright--
Fair emblems of a world of light!

Oh, bathe my temples with thy dew,
Sweet Evening, dearest parent mild,
And from thy curtained home of blue,
Bend calmly o'er thy tearful child:
For, when I feel, so soft and bland,
The pressure of thy tender hand,
I dream I rest in peace the while,
Cradled beneath my mother's smile.

That mother sleeps! the snow-white shroud
Enfolds her stainless bosom now,
And, like bright hues on some pale cloud,
Rose-leaves were woven round her brow.
I wreathed them that to heaven's pure bowers,
Surrounded with the breath of flowers,
Her soul might soar through mists divine,
Like incense from a holy shrine.

How changed my being! moments sweep
Down, down the eternal gulf of Time;
And we, like gilded bubbles, keep
Our course amid their waves sublime,
Till, mingled with the foam and spray,
We flash our lives of joy away;
Or, drifting on through Sorrow's shades,
Sink as a gleam of starlight fades.

Alone! alone! I'm left alone--
A creature born to grieve and die;
But, while upon Night's sapphire throne,
In yonder broad and glorious sky,
I gaze in sadness--lo! I feel
A vision of the future steal
Across my sight, like some faint ray
That glimmers from the fount of day.

* * * * *

OTHELLO TO IAGO.

BY R.T. CONRAD.

Accursed be thy life! Darkness thy day!
Time, a slow agony; a poison, love;
Wild fears about thee, wan despair above!
Crush'd hopes, like withered leaves, bestrew thy way!
Nothing that lives lov'st thou; nothing that lives
Loves thee. The drops that fall from Hecla's snow
'Neath the slant sun, are warmer than the flow
Of thy chill'd heart. Thine be the bolt that rives!
Be there no heaven to thee; the sky a pall;
The earth a rack; the air consuming fire;
The sleep of death and dust thy sole desire--
Life's throb a torture, and life's thought a thrall:
And at the judgment may thy false so