eam
Which childhood learns from an angel-dream,
And her bright hair stirred in the flickering beam.

Those tresses soft to his lips were pressed,
Her head was leaned on his happy breast,
And the throb of the bosom his soul expressed;

And ever a gentle murmur came
From the clear, bright heart of the wavering flame,
Like the faltering thrill of a worshiped name.

He kissed her on the warm, white brow,
And told her in fonder words, the vow
He whispered under the moonlit bough;

And o'er them a steady radiance came
From the shining heart of the mounting flame,
Like a love that burns through life the same.

The maiden smiled through her joy-dimmed eyes,
As he led her spirit to sunnier skies,
Whose cloudless light on the future lies--

And a moment paused the laughing flame,
And it listened awhile, and then there came
A cheery burst from its sparkling frame.

He visioned a home by pure love blest,
Clasping their souls in a calmer rest,
Like woodland birds in their leafy nest.

There slept, foreshadowed, the bliss to be,
When a tenderer life that home should see,
In the wingless cherub that climbed his knee.

And the flame went on with its flickering song,
And beckoned and laughed to the lovers long,
Who sat in its radiance, red and strong.

Then broke and fell a glimmering brand
To the cold, dead ashes it fed and fanned,
And its last gleam leaped like an infant's hand.

A sudden dread to the maiden stole,
For the gloom of a sorrow seemed to roll
O'er the sunny landscape within her soul.

But, hovering over its smouldering bed,
Its ruddy pinions the flame outspread,
And again through the chamber its glory shed;

And ever its chorus seemed to be
The mingled voices of household glee,
Like a gush of winds in a mountain tree.

The night went on in its silent flow,
While through the waving and wreathed glow
They watched the years of the Future go.

Their happy spirits learned the chime
Of its laughing voice and murmured rhyme--
A joyous music for aftertime.

They felt a flame as glorious start,
Where, side by side, they dwelt apart,
In the quiet homestead of the heart.

MARGINALIA.

BY EDGAR A. POE.

One of the happiest examples, in a small way, of the
carrying-one's-self-in-a-hand-basket logic, is to be found in a London
weekly paper called "The Popular Record of Modern Science; a Journal
of Philosophy and General Information." This work has a vast
circulation, and is respected by em