Whither my

heart is gone, there follows my hand, and not elsewhere.

For where the heart goes before, like a lamp, and illumes

the pathway,

Many things are made clear, that else lie hidden in

darkness.

LONGFELLOW'S EVANGEline.

Its measured smile and tread;

The foot, that once the snowflake spurned,
By courtly rule is led;

And fashion's hand has smoothed the fold
Of that luxuriant hair;

Where once the tress of glossy gold

Waved wildly on the air.

MRS. OSGOOD.

Tamerlane. The world! 'twould be too little for thy pride!

Thou wouldst scale heaven.

Bajazet. I would: away! my soul

Disdains thy conference.

I am a woman: tell me not of fame ;

ROWE'S TAMERLANE.

The eagle's wing may sweep the stormy path,
And fling back arrows where the dove would die.

Give me the boon of love!

The path of fame is drear,
And glory's arch doth ever span

A hillside cold and sere.

MISS LANDON.

One wildflower from the path of love,
All lowly though it lie,

Is dearer than the wreath that waves

To stern Ambition's eye.

H. S. TUCKERMAN.

THE LADY PILGRIM.

It was early morning in one of the old palaces in England. The night had been a tempestuous one, but the heavy clouds were rolling away before the dawn, and the gray mist was creeping slowly up the sides of the mountains, and hanging in dense wreaths over the little streamlet which watered the valley below. Large drops of rain hung pendent upon the foliage of the gnarled old oaks which bordered the gravelled walks in the parks, while a flood of perfume came from the halfopened buds of the sweet young wildflowers.

The proud Earl of Lincoln sat alone in his rich but antique reception room. His attitude was one of intense thought, for both arms rested heavily upon the marble table before him, and his head was dropped upon them, as if he were entirely absorbed in his musings. The strong beams of light, now fast thickening, streamed in through the high stained windows, and tinged with a silvery brightness the gray locks which wandered over his venerable forehead. A loose dressing gown, which his faithful old servitor, Dudley, had thrown around him, was carelessly looped over his chest, and swept the heavy oak floor upon either side of his chair, while his feet were thrust into a pair of delicately embroidered slippers, wrought by his idolized daughter, the Lady Arabella.

The earl had long sat in that same position. Two or three times Dudley had passed in and out, pausing each time by the door, anxiously regarding his master, and wondering what had called him up that morning, long before another inmate of the castle was stirring.

"What can be the matter?" he muttered, as he turned away the last time, with an air of unsatisfied curiosity. "He is not wont to be in such an unsocial mood. It is early, too," he continued, as he glanced up to an old clock which ticked in a curiously-carved case, in one corner of the hall. "Something more than usual is in the wind, for sure."

"It cannot be!" exclaimed the earl, lifting his face, with a troubled expression, from his hands; "I had strong hopes of it, but it cannot be! The Lady Arabella is determined to dash from her lips every cup of happiness and honor I, in my doting fondness, would mingle for her; she will never be a peeress in the proud realm of England; she prefers an untitled plebeian to one of her own rank; she laughs at all titles of distinction, and speaks even jestingly of stars, garters, and diamonds. From whom does the girl take her disposition? Not from me. Heaven knows, not from me. My earliest dreams were of power; my infantile graspings were after the trappings of royalty; but the countess, her mother, was a true prototype of the child-modest as the violet which hides in the

moss, unassuming as the humblest peasant girl in the kingdom. And yet she was all that a true woman should be," continued the earl, as his eye moistened over her memory. "When alone with me, she was blithe as the spring bird, and her heart was brimful of all the kindly affections of our nature. She is dead, and Arabella alone is left to me sole heiress of the honors and riches of my house. I would link her with the house of Devonshire, for I cannot bear that plebeian blood should ever flow through a vein which claims kindred with me; but the girl told me last night that she loved one without a title one as careless of the world's honors as herself. Isaac Johnson! Who is he? They say that he has vast wealth— that, in my eye, is his only recommendation. Had it been otherwise, I would have punished his presumption in aspiring to the hand of my child."

Again the earl dropped his head, and mused moodily.

"My lord," said Dudley, opening the door, and cautiously peering in, "a gentleman in the hall desires an audience with you. Shall I admit him?"

"Who is he, and what is his business at this hour?" asked the earl, half angrily. "Can I never have a moment to spend with my own thoughts? Who is it, Dudley?"

"I do not know, for true," said the old man, brushing his earlocks back. "If I might hazard