But I am sad--_thou art away!_

I sink in dreams:--low, sweet, and clear,
Thy own dear voice is in my ear:--
Around my cheek thy tresses twine--
Thy own loved hand is clasped in mine,
Thy own soft lip to mine is pressed--
Thy head is pillowed on my breast;
Oh, I have all my heart holds dear,
_And I am happy--thou art here!_






THE WORD OF PRAISE.





A LITTLE thing is a sunbeam--a very little thing. It streams through
our casement, making the cheerful room still more cheerful; and yet
so accustomed are we to its presence, that we notice it not, and
heed not its exhilarating effect.

But its absence would be quickly seen and felt. The unfortunate
prisoner in his dimly-lighted cell would hail with rapture that
blessed stream of light; and the scarcely less imprisoned inmates of