You take no interest in these remarks, perhaps; but treasure them. If
ever, Cousin Mary, you _drive a dray_, they will serve you.


[To be continued.]

* * * * *


THY PSYCHE.


Like a strain of wondrous music rising up in cloister dim,
Through my life's unwritten measures thou dost steal, a glorious
hymn!
All the joys of earth and heaven in the singing meet, and flow
Richer, sweeter, for the wailing of an undertone of woe.
How I linger, how I listen for each mellow note that falls,
Clear as chime of angels floating downward o'er the jasper walls!

Every night, when winds are moaning round my chamber by the sea,
Thine's the face that through the darkness latest looks with love at
me;
And I dream, ere thou departest, thou dost press thy lips to mine;--
Then I sleep as slept the Immortals after draughts of Hebe's wine!
And I clasp thee, out of slumber when the rosy day is born,
As the soul, with rapture waking, clasps the resurrection morn.

'Twas thy soul-wife, 'twas thy Psyche, one uplifted, radiant day,
Thou didst call me;--how divinely on thy brow Love's glory lay!