Mysteriously are scattered here about, By simple rule though easy to fiud out; Belusive words at times! a common phrase! And oft repeated in life's early days: And even now 'tis pleasant in this way To give as t'were by stealth th' expression play. For what E say thus do not think me rudeUpon my word "E hope E don't intrude!” Carefully now delve in wit's capacious mines, And so make out four words, produced by just eleven signs, The message undiscovered else still lurks within these lines.

MAIDEN AT THE LODGE.

No one ever yet saw speck upon her,

Or a stain

On her morning robe of common cotton,
Or the après midi

Mousseline de laine.

Charming is she in her neat attire,
In the morning, daily,

Down the long arch of the elm tree avenue
Tripping gaily.

Humble daughter of a toil bent sire,
Fair haired rustic beauty,

To no higher claim doth she aspire
Than pure filial duty;

Her little stream of life still ebbing, flowing,
Calm and clear,

Through the fever'd heat of summer's glowing,
Or when Autumn sere

Sprinkles on her path his leafy showers
Rustling round her feet;

Or when wintry winds pass shrilly by her
With their pelting sleet.

As a bird of soft unruffled plumage

Passes through the rain,

So she goes upon her little missions
And returns again;

Scarcely damped although the flying showers
Drench the grassy plain.

We shall miss thee, soon thou wilt pass by us
No more to return:

Ere the bearded barley crop is garnered
Hymen's torch will burn,

Lighting up a humble latticed chamber

Where a manly heart

Waits to clasp thee to its tender throbbings-
Never more to part.

Sadly will the old dame miss her daughter dear,
With her busy needle and her plain work,

Seated near;

When the aged mother drinks the soft air
In her gothic chair.

In the shadow of the tall acacia's
Drooping flowers;

When the sultry heat becomes oppressive,
And the fainting hours

Weary grow beneath the trellis frame work
Honeysuckle bound,

Where the sweet-pea's white and pale pink blossoms
Twine around;

Where the pointed purple-dropping fuscias

Overhead are hung,

Where the creepers into mimic archways
Thy white hands have strung.

She will miss thy helping arm, around her
Fondly placed,

Guiding step by step her tottering footfalls
So slow paced;

Resting oft, upheld by that dear arm bent
Round her waist.

With the summer petals thou wilt leave us,
When the wheaten grain

In its ripeness bends to meet the sickle,
Shedding golden rain:

From earth's arid bosom torn, to fertilize
On some distant plain;

So thou goest from us with God's blessing
For thy bridal train.

BREATHINGS OF THE INVISIBLE.

Wrestling with a spirit yet unbroken,
Struggling in the net of earthly ties;
Thoughts but to the passing wind outspoken
As in lonely wanderings they arise,
Here may find a place

As their moods I trace,

Stretched beneath the gloom of cloudy skies.

Mock not though the rhymer fondly museth
Wandering to the invisible around,
While incorporal agency diffuseth

Through our being, feeling, thought, and sound:
Mind and matter blent

In entanglement

Mystic as the life by which they're bound.

In his toil the weary student bending,
Cometh one who hath his earnest vow;
All unseen her influence is blending

With the stillness clustered round his brow;
Till the voiceless air

Tells him she is there,

And in blissful charm his senses bow.

Ere the distant portal bell hath sounded;
As the master's presence draweth near,
From the ember'd hearth the dog hath bounded,
Startling those around with sudden fear:
Fondly, faithful hound!

Doth thy love profound

Mark his coming!-soon he will be here.

Far beyond the tangible love goeth

When the matron's holy fountful breast

Of the slumbering infant's breathings knoweth,
Distant in its rosy curtained nest;

To her bosom's sense

Saith a throb intense

List! the babe awakeneth from its rest.

When the storm of battle's tide was rolling
And a hero fell upon the plain,

For his soul no passing bell was tolling,
Silently he sank amid the slain.
Did he wish to say

To those far away,

He could ne'er return to them again?

Who can tell the agony of sorrow

In the bleeding bullet-riven breast ;
When 'tis felt that ere the dawning morrow
Life shall be no longer there a guest!
May not ardent prayer

Hope for favor where

Love for ever dwelleth with the blest?

In their moonlit home his friends were seated, Free from thought of sadness or of care;

In a distant room his harp repeated

Notes of prelude to a well-known air. ""Tis our Orpen's touch!

He is thinking much

To surprise us-but how came he there ?"

To that distant chamber swiftly gliding
Like pale ghosts they gather round the door.
Surely it is he and he is hiding,

Orpen, speak! O speak now, we implore!
All is still as death,

Save their hurried breath

As they pant with terror more and more.

When the door was opened, not a token
Of a living creature there was found
Fearful seemed the silence and unbroken,