ve's hand can portray
On memory's tablets each delicate hue;
And recall to my bosom the long happy day
When she gathered ye, fresh sprinkled over with dew.
Ah, never did garland so lovely appear,
For her warm lip had breathed on each beautiful flower;
And the pearl on each leaf was less bright than the tear
That gleamed in her eyes in that rapturous hour.

Ye are wither'd, sweet buds, but in memory ye bloom,
Nor can nature's stern edict your loveliness stain;
Ye are fadeless and rich in undying perfume,
And your sweetness, like truth, shall unaltered remain.
When this fond beating heart shall be cold in the grave,
Oh, mock not my bier with fame's glittering wreath;
But bid on my temples these wither'd buds wave,
Through life fondly cherish'd, and treasured in death.

And had he really kept these withered flowers for her sake? How did her
soul flow up into her eyes, to descend upon those faded blossoms in
floods of tears, as sadly she pressed them to her lips and heart!

Then came the dreadful thought--He whom you thus passionately love is a
murderer, the murderer of his father! The hand that penned those tender
lines has been stained with blood. Shuddering, she let the flowers fall
from her grasp. She turned, and met the mild beautiful eyes of his
mother. The lifeless picture seemed to reproach her for daring for a
moment to entertain such unworthy suspicions of her child, and she
murmured for the hundredth time, since she first heard the tale of
horror, "No, no, I cannot believe him guilty."

She undressed and went to bed. The bed in which he had so lately slept,
in which he had passed so many wakeful hours in thinking of her; in
forming bright schemes of future happiness, and triumphing in idea over
the seeming impossibilities of his untoward destiny. His spirit
appeared to hover around her, and in dreams she once more wandered with
him through forest paths, eloquent with the song of birds, and bright
with spring and sunshine.

Oh, love! how strong is thy faith! How confiding thy trust. The world in
vain frowns upon the object of thy devotion. Calumny may blacken, and
circumstances condemn, but thou, in thy blind simplicity, still
clingest, through storm and shine, to the imaginary perfections of thy
idol.

To believe in the innocence of Anthony Hurdlestone was to hope against
hope; yet Juliet firmly, confidingly, and religiously beli