Lay glittering islands of the blest;

Our dear ones rush to grasp the prize,
Heroic heart and hand combine;
The hopeful day, O Lord, is thine!

The night also is thine;

When joy is past, and hope is fled,
Our heroes gone, our flag all furled,
And "Rachel, mourning for her dead,"
Refuses comfort from the world;

To thee we turn, O Christ divine!
The night, also, the night is thine!

The night, O Lord, is thine!

In darkness, which no eye can pierce;
In waiting for a distant morn;
In cruel tempests, cold and fierce;
In desolation most forlorn,

To thee we quietly resign

Our souls. O Lord, the night is thine!

MEMORY AWAKENED BY SPRING.

Her form was motionless beneath the coverlid's white fold,
So still did Memory sleeping lie, all through the winter cold;
Her breath came from her parted lips, soft as a flow'ret's sigh,
And snowy eyelids hid from view the luster of her eye;
Like "shadows of the sun" her golden ringlets lay unstirred,
And in her sleep escaped no dreaming fragment of a word;
No dream beneath her eyelid moved, amidst the slumber deep,
No smile across her heavenly face—'t was more of death than sleep.
Of this still room, as sentinel, the Present kept the door,

All fierce and stern! Ah, lovely maid, wilt thou awake no more?

The sweet south-wind comes stealing

With a healing

In its wing,

And in Memory's ringlets straying

Are the rosy fingers playing

Of the Spring.

She, the sleeper's golden tresses
Ever dresses

With her flowers;

And the atmosphere is ringing,
While around with joyous singing

Dance the hours.

And Memory stirs a soft rose-flush is spreading o'er her cheek,
She slowly opes her eyes as one "by suffering made meek ;"
Then as she lists the voice of Spring, a smile like childhood's smile
Breaks o'er her face, which lay so cold and deadly still erstwhile;
Throughout her limbs a tremor runs - the tremor of glad life -
The air is quivering with joy—the air with fragrance rife!
Memory arises from her couch, she goes forth with the Spring,
And as they wander, hand in hand, old childish songs they sing;
They paddle in the brooklet, with their bare white feet they splash,
Or drops of water on each other's face and shoulders dash;

They gather red bud-branches, and they weave them in their hair,
Or make them rosy anklets for their ankles round and bare.

And now they rest within a bower, and childish things are gone,
While Memory's lips are parted, counting minutes one by one;
The ear is bent attentively, as if some sound to hear,
While the flush of hope alternates with the pallid hue of fear.
At length the flush predominates, it spreads o'er neck and face,
The golden quince-boughs part, she sinks into a loved embrace.
The stars are in the heavens, and the stars shine in her soul,
The mighty joys of being loved, in waves around her roll;
The air is full of music, and her heart is full of bliss,

66

Oh, not another moment comes of comfort like to this!"
No, not another moment" of content so absolute,"

For to the maiden's ear no sound is like the lover's lute.

But years have passed, grave years of duty, long and weary years
Of joy and sorrow, hopes and doubts, and smiles oft changed to tears;
Yet Memory still serenely walks amidst the flowers of spring,
And hears the red-bird in the leaves, she hears him sweetly sing:
A friend is by her side whose face bears an immortal youth,
Lent by the force of intellect, lent by the power of truth,
Lent by the witchery of wit, and lent by fancy's touch.
Father, we thank thee for all gifts, for these we thank thee much!
The evening sun is sinking as they stroll beside the stream,
And Friendship's voice is musical as Love's first early dream.

"Ah, see," she says, our shadows as they lengthen o'er the waves;
So shall our friendship grow and cast its shadow on our graves,
And ever grow until it reaches quite across Death's river,
And strikes upon the shining bank of the eternal Ever!"

Now Memory sits upon the sward, the spring-flowers fall like snow, And what she thinks, or what she dreams, may mortals never know; But close she clasps the hand of Spring, lest she the earth forsake, And seems to say most pleadingly, “Oh, keep me still awake!"

THE

MISS NELLY MARSHALL.

THE subject of this sketch is the daughter of the distinguished General Humphrey Marshall, of Kentucky, celebrated in the annals of the South as a oldier and a statesman. She was born in Louisville, Kentucky, in the year 1847.

From her earliest childhood, Miss Marshall's intellectual development was remarkable, and her first compositions, though, as was natural, abounding in the crudities that mark the early efforts of all young writers, foretold that mental power and strength which have since won for her so many warm admirers and true friends. But those abilities which, in another, would have been carefully and tenderly nurtured, were, in her, subjected to the pruning-knife of opposition, and hence her talent may be said to have grown like the prairie-rose, climbing and clinging and blossoming at its own sweet will.

Reared in the strictest seclusion, and allowed only the freest communion with Nature, she has grown into womanhood with the trusting confidence of childhood in her heart and beautifying her character. She is described as petite in stature, delicately proportioned, and with large gray eyes and wavy light-brown hair.

Miss Marshall is perhaps one of the most popular writers in the South and West, although, as yet, her intellectual power is, as it were, undeveloped. Her friends claim and expect more marked manifestations of talent than she has yet given, and, judging by what this young lady has already accomplished, we think we may safely assert that they will not be disappointed.

The circumstances that led Miss Marshall to abandon the retirement in which she had hitherto lived, were very sad. The war, which brought devastation and desolation to so many homes in Kentucky, passed by "Beechland" with an unsparing hand. Unexpected trials, sickness, death, adversity, assailed that once merry household; and as a member of the shadowed and grief-stricken circle, Miss Marshall was compelled to resort to her pen, to stand in the breach between those

most dear to her and misfortune. She is now pursuing the profession of literature in New York, where she lives in strict retirement.

Miss Marshall recently published a novel, which was successful, entitled "As by Fire," published in New York by Geo. S. Wilcox.*

QUESTIONS.

Why are the days so drearily long?

Why seems each duty a terrible task?

Why have my red lips hushed their glad song?
Why?thro' the distance I hopelessly ask!

Why are the sunbeams ghastly and dim?
Why have the flowers lost their perfume?
Why wails my heart a funeral hymn?
Why do my tears all my smilings entomb?

Was I predestined a child of despair?
Must all my brightest hopes soonest decay?
Must all my castles be reared in the air,
And hope, taking wings, speed fleetest away?

Will he forever be haughty and cold?
Never once melting 'neath love's sunny smile?
Memories-sweet mem'ries of glad days of old —
Teach me again how his heart to beguile!

Has the bright past no brightness for him?
Is the warm love that he cherished quite dead?
Ah, love's gay visions have grown strangely dim!
Holdeth his heart a new passion instead?

If this dark knowledge of misery be mine;

If the hope of his truth, because brightest, be fleetest:
Then, come, beloved Death! - I'll gladly be thine;

And of all Love's embraces thine own shall be sweetest!

*Prose selections from Miss Marshall's portfolio were twice lost by mail.