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If the proud wealth flung back upon the heart
Must canker in its coffers—if the links
Falsehood hath broken will unite no more-
If the deep-yearning love that hath not found
Its like in the cold world, must waste in tears-
If truth, and fervor, and devotedness,
Finding no worthy altar, must return
And die of their own fulness— if beyond
The grave there is no Heaven in whose wide air
The spirit may find room, and in the love
Of whose bright habitants the lavish heart
May spend itself—what thrice-mocked fools are we !

THE WIFE'S APPEAL.

Pride above all things strengthens

" Love borrows greatly from opinion. affection."

E. L. BULWER.

He sat and read. A book with silver clasps,
All gorgeous with illuminated lines
Of gold and crimson, lay upon a frame
Before him. 'Twas a volume of old time;
And in it were fine mysteries of the stars
Solved with a cunning wisdom, and strange thoughts,
Half prophecy, half poetry, and dreams
Clearer than truth, and speculations wild
That touched the secrets of your very soul,
They were so based on Nature. With a face
Glowing with thought, he pored upon the book.
The cushions of an Indian loom Jay soft
Beneath his limbs, and, as he turned the page,

The sunlight, streaming through the curtain's fold, Fell with a rose-tint on his jewell'd hand, And the rich woods of the quaint furniture Lay deepening their veined colours in the sun, And the stained marbles on the pedestals Stood like a silent company-Voltaire, With an infernal sneer upon his lips, And Socrates, with godlike human love Stamped on his countenance, and orators Of times gone by that made them, and old bards, And Medicean Venus, half divine. Around the room were shelves of dainty lore, And rich old pictures hung upon the walls Where the slant light fell on them; and wrought gems, · Medallions, rare mosaics, and antiques From Herculaneum, the niches filled. And on a table of enamel, wrought With a lost art in Italy, there lay Prints of fair women, and engravings rare, And a new poem, and a costly toy, And in their midst a massive lamp of bronze

Burning sweet spices constantly. Asleep
Upon the carpet couched a graceful hound,
Of a rare breed, and, as his master gave
A murmur of delight at some sweet line,
He raised his slender head, and kept his eye
Upon him till the pleasant smile had passed
From his mild lips, and then he slept again.
The light beyond the crimson folds grew dusk,
And the clear letters of the pleasant book
Mingled and blurred, and the lithe hound rose up,
And, with his earnest eye upon the door,
Listened attentively. It came as wont-
The fall of a light foot upon the stair-
And the fond animal sprang out to meet
His mistress, and caress the ungloved hand,
He seemed to know was beautiful. She stooped
Gracefully down and touched his silken ears
As she passed in—then, with a tenderness,
Half playful and half serious, she knelt
Upon the ottoman and pressed her lips
Upon her husband's forehead.

She rose and put the curtain-folds aside
From the high window, and looked out upon
The shining stars in silence. “ Look they not
Like Paradises to thine eye ?” he said,
But, as he spoke, a tear fell through the light,
And starting from his seat he folded her
Close to his heart, and, with unsteady voice,
Asked if she was not happy. A faint smile
Broke through her tears; and pushing off the hair
From his fine forehead, she held back his head
With her white hand, and, gazing on his face,
Gave to her heart free utterance :-

Happy ?-yes, dearest!—blest
Beyond the limit of my wildest dream-
Too bright, indeed, my blessings ever seem ;

There lives not in my breast,
One of Hope's promises by Love unkept,
And yet-forgive me, Ernest, I have wept.

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