Colonel St. Clair-Truly, M. de Refrain is in the right. Come, come, give us our revenge; attack these ladies.

Marquise What, colonel! is that your notion of military tactics? What would you think of an army drawn up in battle array, who, instead of attacking the enemy, should let them escape in order to turn their arms upon their allies? H.

Sat at her feet, whose brow was bright with bloom
When the cold grave shut o'er it.-It hath left
Its image everywhere-upon my books,

My bower of musing, and my page of thought,

And the lone altar of my secret soul."-Mrs. Sigourney.

The Beautiful hath vanished! like the flower

Tended, through storm and shine, with kindliest care, Which hath survived the Winter's dreariest honr And faded when its hues the loveliest were,

In the glad Spring time's morn,

When the warm sun-beam kissed its beauty mild-
Then, from its soil uptorn,

Lay cold and crushed that human flower, our child,
And Hope was changed to Grief.

That bitter grief no wild lament need say ¡
Noiseless and calm the deepest waters flow-

And ours is measureless, for day by day,

More strong and sad its bitterness doth grow.
Our hope of hopes is gone,

Vanished from heart and home is one dear light:
The best of life is done,

For on its sunshine hath descended Night,

Starless, and murk, and cold.

Not now, with bounding spirit, do we drain
Hope's charmed chalice, as we did of yore;
Nor, questioning the future, strive to gain
Knowledge of all the good she had in store.

The past-the past alone

Holds in its cells the treasures which we prize,
The memory of the gone.-

The smile the glance--whate'er the Grave denies-
It yields them all again!

Not where the light jest speeds, where smilers come,
Breathe we thy name, departed Child of Earth,
But in the unwonted silence of our home-

That home once joyous with thy hearted mirth;
When on thy vacant chair

Sadly we look, and miss thee from thy place!
Miss thy high forehead fair,-

Thy full, dark eye-thy curls-thy radiant face—
Thy laugh, like mirthful music.

Like a bright dream thy sojourn seems to be-
A brilliancy no sooner here than past!

We miss thy quick, light step-thy glance of glee,-
Thy graceful form-all, all too fair to last!

We miss thy thought-crowned brow,

Thy cheerful converse, and thy gentlest voice,-
Like far-off music, low,

Yet such as made even strangers' hearts rejoice,
Sadly we miss them now!

Often, in summer-gloaming, hand in hand
We sit together where thy smiles have been,-
Sometimes in silence, sometimes in a bland,
And mournful converse suited to the scene.
We talk of days gone by,

Filled with bright promise of the coming years,
Where thou, fair child, wert nigh-

And, talking thus, our eyes are filled with tears,
Whose fount is in the heart.

Thou wert a child in years, oh daughter mine!
But thy young mind was ripe before its time;
For thou didst love to read in lore divine,
High expiation for all human crime.