When thoughts, half pain, half pleasure, steal
Upon the heart, and memory doth
The shadowy past reveal.

When seems the bliss of former years,--
Too sweet, too pure, to feel again,--
And long lost hours, scenes, friends, return,
Remember me, love--then!

"Ah, Clarendon! how often have I read those lines, and thought--but I
will not think now! Here come the letters! Henry will soon be busy--I
shall finish my drawing--and aunt will finish--no! she never _can_
finish her tambour work. Take my portfolio and give me another
contribution!" Gage now wrote "The Return," which we insert for the
reader's approval:--

THE RETURN.

When the blue-eyed morn doth peep
Over the soft hill's verdant steep,
Lighting up its shadows deep,
I'll think of thee, love, _then!_

When the lightsome lark doth sing
Her grateful song to Nature's King,
Making all the woodlands ring,
I'll think of thee, love, _then!_

Or when plaintive Philomel
Shall mourn her mate in some lone dell,