Down by the fountain, where you seated you
To read the last new novel-what d'ye call't-
The 'Prairie,' was it not?"

"It was, my love,

And there, as I remember, your kind arm
Pillow'd my aged head; 'twas irksome, sure,
To your young limbs and spirit."

"No, believe me,
To keep the insects from disturbing you
Was sweet employment, or to fan your cheek
When the breeze lull'd."

"You're a dear child!"

"And then

To gaze on such a scene! the grassy bank,

So gently sloping to the rivulet,

All purple with my own dear violet,

And sprinkled o'er with spring flowers of each tint.
There was that pale and humble little blossom,
Looking so like its namesake, Innocence;

The fairy-form'd, flesh-hued anemone,

With its fair sisters, called by country people

Fair maids o' the spring. The lowly cinquefoil too,
And statelier marigold.

The violet sorrel
Blushing so lowly red in bashfulness,

And her companion of the season, dress'd
In varied pink. The partridge evergreen,
Hanging its fragrant wax-work on each stem,
And studding the green sod with scarlet berries."

"Did you see all those flowers? I mark'd them not."

"Oh, many more, whose names I have not learn'd!
And then to see the light blue butterfly

Roaming about like an enchanted thing,
From flower to flower, and the bright honey-bee.
And there, too, was the fountain, overhung
With bush and tree, draped by the graceful vine,

Where the white blossom of the dogwood met
The crimson red-bud, and the sweet birds sang
Their madrigals; while the fresh-springing waters,
Just stirring the green fern that bathed within them,
Leap'd joyful o'er their fairy mound of rock,
And fell in music-then pass'd prattling on,
Between the flowery banks then bent to kiss them."

"I dream'd not of these sights or sounds.”

Beyond the brook there lay a narrow strip,
Like a rich riband, of enamell'd meadow,
Girt by a pretty precipice, whose top

"Then just

Was crowned with rose-bay. Halfway down there stood,
Sylph-like, the light fantastic columbine

As ready to leap down unto her lover
Harlequin Bartsia, in his painted vest
Of green and crimson."

"Tut! enough, enough,

Your madcap fancy runs too riot, girl.
We must shut up your books of botany,
And give you graver studies."

"Will you shut

The book of Nature, too?—for it is that
I love and study. Do not take me back
To the cold, heartless city, with its forms
And dull routine; its artificial manners
And arbitrary rules; its cheerless pleasures
And mirthless masquing. Yet a little longer-
Oh let me hold communion here with Nature."

"Well, well, we'll see. But we neglect our lecture
Upon this picture."

"Poor Red Riding Hood! We had forgotten her; yet mark, dear madam, How patiently the poor thing waits our leisure. And now the hidden moral."

"Thus it is:
Mere children read such stories literally,
But the more elderly and wise deduce
A moral from the fiction. In a word,

The wolf that you must guard against is-LOVE.”

"I thought love was an infant; 'toujours enfant.'"

"The world and love were young together, child, And innocent-alas! time changes all things."

True, I remember, love is now a man, And, the song says, 'a very saucy one,'But how a wolf?"

"In ravenous appetite,

Unpitying and unsparing, passion is oft
A beast of prey. As the wolf to the lamb,

Is he to innocence."

"I shall remember,

For now I see the moral.

Trust me, madam,

Should I e'er meet this wolf-love in my way,

Be he a boy or man, I'll take good heed,

And hold no converse with him."

"You'll do wisely."

"Nor e'er in field or forest, plain or pathway, Shall he from me know whither I am going,

Or whisper that he'll meet me."

"That's my child."

"Nor in my grandam's cottage, nor elsewhere, Will I e'er lift the latch for him myself,

Or bid him pull the bobbin."

You've learned your lesson."

Somewhat perplexes me."

"Well, my dear,

"Yet one thing, my mother,

I will explain."

"Say what, my love

"This wolf, the story goes,

Deceived poor grandam, and ate her up:

What is the moral here? Have all our grandams

Been first devour'd by love?"

"Let us go in;

The air grows cold; you are a forward chit."

LENORE.

E. A. POE.

AH! broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown for ever!

Let the bell toll!-a saintly soul floats on the Stygian

river;

And, Guy de Vere, hast thou no tear?-weep now, or

never more!

See, on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love Lenore!

Come, let the burial rite be read, the funeral song be sung;

An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so

young,

A dirge for her, the doubly dead, in that she died so

young.

"Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth, and hated her for her pride,

And when she fell in feeble health ye blessed her, that she died!

How shall the ritual, then, be read-the requiem how

be sung,

By you-by yours, the evil eye-by yours, the slanderous tongue,

That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?"

"Thus it is:

Mere children read such stories literally,
But the more elderly and wise deduce
A moral from the fiction. In a word,

The wolf that you must guard against is-LOVE."

"I thought love was an infant; 'toujours enfant."

"The world and love were young together, child, And innocent-alas! time changes all things."

"True, I remember, love is now a man, And, the song says, 'a very saucy one,'But how a wolf?"

"In ravenous appetite, Unpitying and unsparing, passion is oft A beast of prey. As the wolf to the lamb,

Is he to innocence."

"I shall remember,

For now I see the moral.

Trust me, madam,

Should I e'er meet this wolf-love in my way,

Be he a boy or man, I'll take good heed,
And hold no converse with him."

"You'll do wisely."

"Nor e'er in field or forest, plain or pathway, Shall he from me know whither I am going,

Or whisper that he'll meet me."

"Nor in my grandam's cottage, nor elsewhere, Will I e'er lift the latch for him myself,

Or bid him pull the bobbin."

You've learned your lesson."

Somewhat perplexes me."

"Well, my dear,

"Yet one thing, my mother,