Half yielding that fair form and face,
To the young lover's fond embrace.

It is not for the bard to tell,
The mutual promise given there,—
Together, all life's varied joys,
Together, all life's ills to share, —
For sacred is the blissful hour,
When lovers their full hearts confess,
And with irrevocable vows,
Exchange the mutual fond caress.
Soon at the altar may'st thou kneel,
In bridal garments fair arrayed,

Pure tears, but not from sorrow's fount, Dimming those blue eyes with a shade, — Thyself a beautiful young bride! Blushing thy manly groom beside.

And when upon the pilgrimage

Of life, your loving footsteps go,
May the broad skies shine bright above,
And earth smile fair and green below.
Linked hand in hand, knit heart to heart,
Young pilgrims, as ye onward fare!

May life's thick wilderness of weeds,
Show only flowers and fruitage rare;
Each day a new delight present,

Each month some added blessing bring,

Each year some new-blown wreath of bliss

Upon the wedded couple fling;

Each year, as it careereth past,

Seeming more prosperous than the last.

And when the chills and frosts of age, Upon that beaming brow descend,

And those rich clustering locks shall wear
The cold white blossoms of life's end;
And when that taper waist shall lose
Its beauty in some coming year,
And when that blooming cheek is seamed
With wrinkles, as decay draws near,
And when that little arm no more,
May bear the gem that clasps it now;
When all of loveliness has pass'd
From that superb, imperial brow,
Sweetly and softly may thy glass
Of life, to its last moments pass!

A RAMBLING ESSAY UPON ROOMS.

I AM inclined to think that the romance of life lies upon its outskirts. Society is but human nature seen through a prism, with its rim only fringed with the tints of poetry. In a little seacoast town, in Massachusetts, I found more of the pure spirit of romance, than I have ever met in the most crowded cities, or the most fashionable society. It was a gloomy morning, and a drizzling rain roughened the air, when I set out upon my expedition. But seated in a high-backed chair, in an old weather-beaten and time-worn room, I defied the day, and plotted the writing of this essay on rooms.

On first entering, I knocked my head against the low rafters, which projected from the ceiling. I forgave the injury in consideration of the compliment to my stature. The occupant of the room, an old withered woman, rose at my entrance, greeted me cordially, and gave me the old-fashioned, high-backed chair for my seat. I had now leisure to look about me, and make an accurate survey of the room. The unplastered, rough walls, and the bold, out-jutting rafters of the ceiling, were imbued with a brown rich color, which the smoke of many years had lent. A small fire was burning on the broad hearth, over which swung a simmering kettle, while the faint line of blue smoke curled up the deep black throat of the chimney. The chimney was of no modern date, and constructed on no utilitarian principles. Its breadth and depth were so great, that, without incon

venience from the heat, three or four could sit within its wide arms, and enliven a long winter evening with gossiping tales. Bending forward, I could look out into the sky and see the lazy clouds trailing overhead. The unpainted floor was thinly spread with scattered patches of carpet, and on the faded rug, which covered the hearth, sat an old gray, purring cat. Through the diamonded panes of the narrow windows, the eye looked out upon the leaden gray of the ocean, fringed with white foam, where the surge kept beating upon the ragged line of rocks. An old oaken chest of drawers stood in the corner, crowned with a row of old cups, and the high mantel-piece was covered with bits of china, and dingy broken glass. These, with the rusty bluish-brown coverlid, thrown over the bed in the corner, and strangely harmonizing with the general color of the room, completed its contents. Opposite me sat my aged hostess, with her mob-cap tied snugly under her chin, and sitting in a stuffed high chair, from which to the wall, was swung an old green cloak, to protect her back from the cold air which whistled through the chinks of a closet door behind her. In a low, tremulous voice, interrupted by asthmatic pauses, she went on crooning to me of the old legends of the place. She told me of dreadful ghosts, and signs, and omens, authenticating them all, and throwing the weight of her own belief into the balance, of dead men, lost at sea, who came, all dripping, up the rigging of other ships, at night, of sailors, who returned, after death, to their widows, while sitting over their lonely fires at midnight, listening to the howling of the storm, until the air grew misty, and a sort of thrill came over me, and I

waited to see some supernatural shape rise up before me. Nowhere else than in that old, dim room, could such stories have been told with effect, in the noon of the day. But the place was weather-beaten and rusty, the light was deprived of its cheerfulness by the dingy panes, and the hoarse under-tone of the surge kept up a ghastly accompaniment to her quavering voice. When I left her, the day seemed unnatural and too bright. So I wandered to the shore to hear the breaking surf, and accustom myself to the daylight,

We are all pieces of furniture. As the trees across a stream grow toward each other, and interclasp their boughs, grow these natures of ours to that which is next them. The invisible tendrils of affection spread out on every side, and, like the innumerable threads that bound Gulliver to the ground, they fasten us to places, and things, and persons. No one can separate himself from his room. His home is a sacred place, and a sacred feeling. The young spirit seems to have left some traces of itself there. In our room, the spirits of our friends are around us. The old conversations, that once moulded the air into music, are there still. The consciousness of having been happy in a place, lends a reflection of light to cheer our overshaded moods. All our thoughts have a dwelling-place in our room. What an old, familiar greeting do the chairs, books and tables give! They seem to invite us to them. The sunlight there is appropriated. It is not common sunlight, but the same that slanted through the windows years ago. It comes back every morning laden with the freight of all preceding mornings. All the joys of the summer days of our youth, are in the breeze that