Ah! then I learnt the pretext

That brought me to your door, As half in fear and all in love

I heard the "one kiss more!"

You cannot know, my dear one,
How deep this heart of mine,
With anxious hopes and tender fears,
Responds the love of thine.

And often, very often,

When sleep hath bowed your head,

I kneel in lonely vigil

And pray beside your bed,

That you may be, not great but good

A higher, loftier aim,

As heavenly meed is better far

Than earth's ephemeral fame.

Be gay, be happy, darling,

But still where'er you roam,
Do not forget that spot, so sweet
We call our cottage home.

EPITHALAMIUM.

A memory sweet for a fair young bride,
But what shall the offering be?

Shall it come from the golden mines of earth,
Or the depths of the sounding sea?

Shall its sheen be that of the ruby gleam,
Or the amethyst's paler hue?

Shall its light be that of the emerald beam,
Or the turquoise's softer blue.

Oh no! for already upon her brow
She weareth, in golden youth,

A crown that would pale all lesser ones-
'Tis woven of love and truth.

Then take from my heart, oh, gentle bride,

A hope and a trusting prayer,

That sunbeams ever upon thy way ·

Their golden hues may wear.

And still, as now, may bliss be thine,
While days glide sweetly on,

With memories dear of a happy past,

And hope in the yet to come.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING is conceded to be the poetess of our age. The preco. cious pupil of her learned and distinguished father, she translated, at an incredibly early age, the grand old Greek, and Latin masters, wrote poetry at ten, more than well at fifteen. Miss Mitford, in her extreme old age, thought nothing of riding forty-five miles, and returning in the evening of the same day, simply for the pleasure which her friendship gave her. She describes her at the age of six

teen, as follows:-" She was the most interesting person I had ever seen, of a slight, delicate figure, with a shower of delicate curls falling on either side of a " most expressive face, large tender eyes, richly fringed by dark eye-lashes, a smile like a sunbeam, and such a look of youthfulness that I could scarcely persuade a friend who saw her at this period that she was the translatress of the 'Prometheus of Eschylus,' the authoress of the 'Essay on Mind." Her writings are frequently marked with an intense feeling of humanity and of womanhood, but not until the sorrow of her life fell upon her, not until those sad, deep fountains of her heart were stirred by the weight of a stunning blow, do we, observe that hue of thought and feeling, especially that devo