ME MORI E S

BY SURREY KERNE.

I.

Now, while the sun-set, with its golden banner,
Waves brightly over purple hill and heath,

I wander idly under leafy billows,

And mark the shadows quivering beneath.

II.

My feet fall silently in hushing mosses;
A trancéd calm is in the summer air;
A flush of beauty comes from dewy blossoms;
I drink delirious draughts of fragrance rare.

IIL

But now a subtler perfume, stealing o'er me,
Speaks to my senses in a voice of power;
The gates of gloom roll back, and fair before me
The past lies, living in a simple flower.

IV.

Ah! fair blush-rose! my heart is still thy garden,
Thy sweetness perfumes every memory;
Thou art to me a counsellor and warden,
A prophet of the joys that are to be.

Unsealed by thee comes back a fairy vision,

Pure and unclouded by the mists of years:

The present vanishes; in dreams elysian

The one bright flower that crowned my life appears.

VI.

I cannot still my heart's tumultuous heaving,

I cannot quench my life's one long regret ;

I see her fairy fingers lightly weaving
Thy blushing beauties for a coronet.

VII.

As the fair morning comes with soft approaches,
So steals the soul to her blue beaming eyes;
And her pale cheek, before my earnest pleading,
Grows flushed and roseate as sun-set skies.

VIII.

In Time's old glass the shining sands ran gayly
To music chanted by our happy hearts;
And the poor common things of life grew daily
More glorious with the grace that love imparts.

XVIII.

And thinking how this fading earthly symbol
Springeth for ever new from DEATH'S decay,
My soul shall cast aside its weary fetters,
To hail the dawn of an eternal day.

Springfield, (Ill.,) August, 1855.

LETTERS TO ELLA: ELLASLAND.

NUMBER TWO.

SINCE you left us I have become the owner of a prospect; that is to say, of some few acres of ground which commands a view; and I have named it after you. If your name were not to us more full of joy and happiness than any other, there are coïncidences which connect you with it. I must tell you how it happened. More years ago than I like to count backward, and when studying my profession, my attention was by an accident fixed particularly upon a principle of law of rather uncommon application, and of a recondite character. I will not stop to explain the circumstance, but it was quite ridiculous, and not altogether pleasant at the time, arising from one of those practical jokes which school-mates play upon each other. It happened afterward, and about the time of your birth, that among the few clients who then found their way to my office, was a reckless young man, nearly at the end of a considerable fortune he had inherited, who was in trouble about the title to his only remaining piece of land. A speculator had discovered a defect in his title-deeds, and had bought in the title from those who conveyed, or intended to convey it, to my client; and, failing to frighten him into a compromise, had commenced suit to eject him. It happened that the principle of law to which I allude was exactly applicable, and saved his land, to the surprise of the speculator, and of some members of the profession, much better lawyers than myself, but who had never had occasion to use the principle in question, and had over-looked it, as I should have done, probably, but for the accident I refer to. The circumstance gave me more reputation than I had before enjoyed, so that my professional reputation and you were born about the same time The necessity for finding more bread for more mouths sharpened my faculties for a diligent improvement of my good fortune, and my business grew faster than you did. The client, however, paid me nothing. He got wretchedly drunk on his victory, and while hiccuping my eulogy, gambled away his land to the very speculator from whom I had saved it; and then considered it a point of honor to convey it to pay his gambling debt, and leave his lawyer unpaid.

Some short time since, a widow woman, advanced in life and stricken

with sorrows, might have been seen, day after day, carrying a bundle of papers from one lawyer's-office to another, and craving aid to enforce a claim for certain lands in the vicinity of the city. She had no money to bear the expense of litigation, and generally commenced her overtures by a proposition to borrow. She had read somewhere, in novels, of lawyers who came to the rescue of widows and orphans, and performed prodigies of skill in their behalf, but had seen no mention of the amount paid for fees. Nor did it appear to enter her head that a lawyer or his family were obliged, as well as other people, to have a diligent regard to their chances of bread and butter. Her mind had dwelt upon her case until her imagination had become inflamed, and she used language in conversing about it such as might have done honor to your friend Dinarzaide, in the Arabian stories. She was considered to be deranged. She was called by the young men in the offices, to whom she had the honor chiefly of rehearsing her story, and who contributed to her bundle of papers occasionally a written opinion, generally involving the discussion of some work of fiction, The Florentine.' She always carried a single flower, of one kind or another, were it no better than a dandelion. It was thought to be a curious example of the monotone of the mind partially dethroned - the flower, and the bundle of papers, and the swollen language of her story. One of the young men spoke of her for short, as Madam Rose,' because the rose was most commonly her flower. This was modified by another, who designated the group, that is to say, the woman, the bundle of papers, the flower, and the story, as 'The Rosary. After a while the phrase changed to Madam Flora,' and from that to Mother Flora;' but there was a relish of mystery and romance in her bearing which had not been expressed by any phrase until young Mr. Brooks, slightly elevated and inspired with a love-affair, described her as The the -the Florentine, conf- d her!' He had been kept from an appointment by her pertinacity, for the tedious period of two minutes and a quarter, his boots all the while pinching dreadfully. The Florentine' was universally adopted by the young gentlemen in the offices, to signify not only the old lady and her belongings, but the psychological condition of Mr. Brooks at that momentous junction.

I had always managed to avoid her, and had never heard her story, except from others. One Christmas morning I visited the office, I suppose from force of habit, or to see how it would seem to go there and not occupy myself with business; for it was my full purpose to enjoy the day as a holiday. My mind, I am afraid, was nevertheless hovering round a case under my charge, involving an interesting question of insanity. It occurred to me that the vlu lady might be a valuabla an. quaintance, w be studied as an additional volume to my library, and that by watching the operations of her mind, I might discover something equal in value to a reported decision on the subject of insanity. Then I thought of the oddity of her always carrying a single flower, and what freak of the mind it could be to produce that result. Then I thought of the translation from some German or Swedish poet, I forget whom, which you used so often to repeat, beginning:

'A FLOWER do but place near thy window-glass,
And through it no image of evil shall pass.'

Then, you see, you had come back to my mind, who are so seldom absent from it, and I thought to myself: What if Ella should live to be an old woman, and should be overtaken by misfortune, and should go crazed, wandering from door to door among strangers, and with a bundle of papers, and an imaginary title to land, be driven back and forth like a battledore, from office to office, by thoughtless young men? My GOD! It occurred to me all at once that we had been committing a crime. I was about to protest, and to say to an imaginary array of lawyers, busy and harassed with every body's cares and troubles but their own: For God's sake, brethren, let us not forget to be men! This old woman was once some body's daughter, and full of sun-shine. The least you can do for her in her solitary and troubled state, is to give her your respect and sympathy.' The thought had got possession of me that some body might have loved her as I love you; and in one moment more a tear would have rolled down my cheek, but it was brushed away. The door quietly opened, and who should stand before me but The Florentine?

Under other circumstances I might have served her as others had; but I was then almost ready to fall on my knees and beseech her that, when she should meet her FATHER in heaven, she would intercede with HIM to forgive us careless lawyers for our unfeeling neglect of His child. Since then, I have almost wished I had done so. It would have been a curious study to watch the effect upon her mind of thus throwing it suddenly back upon her childhood. It might, at any rate, have made an uncommonly nice tableau. But I approached her with the deference and tender respect which my train of thought had produced, and caused her to be seated. To avoid the tedious and unnecessary rehearsal to which she was accustomed, I led the conversation to indifferent topics. The effect at first was that of surprise, and almost apprehension; but seeing herself at length to be treated with delicacy and consideration, her form and whole appearance underwent a change, such as may happen in passing from one state of mind to another. Your friend Dinarzaide had disappeared, and in her place was a lady. Her manners assumed a quiet self-respect, and she conversed intelligently, in language quite well-chosen and unaffected. At length I led the way to her business. She said she had at one time supposed she had a just claim, but latterly had begun to suspect she was a little out of her mind. She was not too happy at best. And as you, Sir, have forborne to indicate that I am troublesome, you will win my gratitude by telling me frankly if I must throw away my hopes of property.' Here she commenced her rehearsal, and very soon your friend Dinarzaide was again visihla I had by this time, however, lost my inclination to amuse myself with her peculiarities, and took advantage of a pause i say that questions of title were for the most part matters of record, and if she would leave her papers, I would examine them, and let her know the result at a convenient time, perhaps one week from that day. Her eyes opened very wide, and had a pleading expression, as much as to say: 'A whole week! must I wait a week?' But this was the last bow of Dinarzaide to the audience for that time. Dinarzaide having stepped out, the lady very quietly and upon the whole rather thankfully as