ost _withered_?"

Poor, poor Fanny Layton! She would go to church regularly--it was
there, dear reader, that her faded face had brought to me such
bewildered rememberings of the Fanny Layton of other years--and always
dressed in the same mock-bridal attire. And there was not an eye in
that village-church but glistened as it rested upon the poor, weary,
stricken one, in her mournful spirit-darkness, and no lip but murmured
brokenly, "Heaven bless her!"

This was the last drop in the cup of the bereaved desolate widow. She
soon found that rest and peace "which the world cannot give or take
away." She sleeps her last, long, dreamless sleep.

It was not long ere another mound was raised in the humble
church-yard, on which was ever blooming the sweetest and freshest
flowers of summer, watered by the tears of many who yet weep and
lament the early perishing of that fairest flower of all. And a marble
slab, on which is simply graven a dove, with an arrow driven to its
very heart, marks the last earthly resting-place of our Lily of the
Valley.

THE SPANISH PRINCESS TO THE MOORISH KNIGHT.

BY GRACE GREENWOOD.

Thou darest not love me!--thou canst only see
The great gulf set between us--had'st thou _love_
'Twould bear thee o'er it on a wing of fire!
Wilt put from thy faint lip the mantling cup,
The draught thou'st prayed for with divinest thirst,
For fear a poison in the chalice lurks?
Wilt thou be barred from thy soul's heritage,
The power, the rapture, and the crown of life,
By the poor guard of danger set about it?
I tell thee that the richest flowers of heaven
Bloom on the brink of darkness. Thou hast marked
How sweetly o'er the beetling precipice
Hangs the young June-rose with its crimson heart--
And would'st not sooner peril life to win
That royal flower, that thou might'st proudly wear
The trophy on thy breast, than idly pluck
A thousand meek-faced daisies by the way?
How dost thou shudder at Love's gentle tones,
As though a serpent's hiss were in thine ear.
Albeit thy heart throbs echo to each word.
Why wilt not rest, oh weary wanderer,
Upon the couch of flowers Love spreads for thee,
On banks of sunshine?--voices silver-toned
Shall lull thy soul with strange, wild harmonies,
Rock thee to sleep upon the waves of song.
Hope shall watch o'er thee with her breath of dreams.
Joy hover near, impati