Its letters, although naturally lying

Like the knight Pinto-Mendez FerdinandoStill form a synonym for Truth.-Cease trying! You will not read the riddle, though you do

the best you can do.

[To translate the address, read the first letter of the first line in connection with the second letter of the second line, the third letter of the third line, the fourth of the fourth, and so on to the end. The name will thus appear.]

My mother-my own mother, who died early, Was but the mother of myself; but you Are mother to the one I loved so dearly,

And thus are dearer than the mother I knew

By that infinity with which my wife

Was dearer to my soul than its own soul-life.

HYMN.

AT morn-at noon

at twilight dim—
Maria, thou hast heard my hymn!
In joy and woe—in good and ill—
Mother of God, be with me still!
When the Hours flew brightly by,
And not a cloud obscured the sky,

My soul, lest it should truant be,
Thy grace did guide to thine and thee:
Now, when storms of Fate o'ercast

Darkly my Present and my Past,

Let my Future radiant shine

With sweet hopes of thee and thine!

AN ENIGMA.

SELDOM we find," says Solomon Don Dunce, "Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet, Through all the flimsy things we see at once, As easily as through a Naples bonnet— Trash of all trash !—how can a lady don it !

Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuff,-
Owl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff
Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con
it."

And, veritably, Sol is right enough.

The general tuckermanities are arrant
Bubbles, ephemeral and so transparent !

But this is, now,-you may depend upon it,-
Stable, opaque, immortal,—all by dint
Of the dear names that lie concealed within't.

THE HAUNTED PALACE.

IN the greenest of our valleys
By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palace-
Radiant palace-reared its head.

In the monarch Thought's dominion—
It stood there !

Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair!

Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
On its roof did float and flow,
(This-all this- was in the olden
Time long ago,)

And every gentle air that dallied,

In that sweet day,

Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,

A winged odor went away.

BUT EVIL THINGS, IN ROBES OF SORROW.

Spirits moving musically,

To a lute's well-tuned law,

Round about a throne where, sitting (Porphyrogene!)

In state his glory well befitting,

The ruler of the realm was seen.

And all with pearl and ruby glowing

Was the fair palace door,

Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,

And sparkling ever more,

A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty

Was but to sing,

In voices of surpassing beauty,

The wit and wisdom of their king.

But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch's high estate.
(Ah, let us mourn !--for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him desolate !)
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.

And travellers, now, within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows see
Vast forms, that move fantastically
To a discordant melody,

While, like a ghastly rapid river,
Through the pale door

A hideous throng rush out forever

And laugh,—but smile no more.