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THEY tell me that life hath a stormy sea,
Dare I trust my bark on its waves with thee?
Dare I give thee the hope of a sunny youth,
And venture my all on thy words of truth?

They tell me that love is a word for pain,
For an aching heart and a throbbing brain;
They tell me that trust is a word for tears,
For a waking dream of tempestuous fears.

Yet I hear thee talk-with a pleasant smile,
And thy dear hand clasping my own the while-
Of a love that the fondest and truest will be,
When the dark storm of woe, sweeps over life's sea.

WITH THEE! WITH THEE! thou hast won the prize,

I have read thy heart through thy fond blue eyes, My soul has drank deep of thy passion breath,

My spirit is won-I AM THINE TILL DEATH!

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MISS HARRIET M. ATWELL, now known in the literary world as Mrs. H. MARION STEPHENS, was born on the third day of July, 1823, and is a daughter of Rev. John Atwell, who has been for forty years a prominent minister of the Maine Methodist Conference. She was born in the romantic town of Sidney, Kennebec County, upon the banks of the Kennebec River. In early youth she left her native State, and for many years after resided at the South. It was while here that she first began to cultivate her native talent, which, in itself, was of no inferior order, and under the simple and modest nom de guerre of Marion Ward,' she commenced contributing to the Philadelphia Saturday Courier,' and as her young mind became more and more cultivated and enriched, her productions were sought for by many of the most popular magazines and journals. She was married in Charleston, S. C., on the 12th of February, 1848, to Mr. Richard Stephens, and during the following year removed to the City of Boston, where she has resided the greater portion of her time. She is an actress of some distinction, and, with her husband, has played a number of engagements at many of the principal Theatres in New England, although we believe she has retired from the stage for the present, if not permanently. Mrs. Stephens was at one time editress of the 'The Golden Age,' a monthly magazine, published by Dr. Ayer, now local editor of the Boston Chronicle. Since this magazine was discontinued, she has been a contributor to a large number of the periodicals, in all parts of the country, devoting her entire attention to literary matters. At present she writes a great deal for the Boston Daily Times,''Gleason's Pictorial,' and the American Union.' In the month of January, 1854, she issued, from the press of Fetridge & Co.,

Boston, Home Scenes, and Home Sounds; or the World from my Window;' a volume of three hundred pages, comprising a collection of her best sketches, 'hurry-graphs' and poems. In her preface she very frankly says, I can't even say I could do better than I have done by the odds and ends of this simple volume, for I couldn't. Good or bad, these sketches are my best.'

Mrs. Stephens has a volume now in press, entitled 'Passion and Reality,' to be issued by Fetridge & Co., during the month of November, and it promises to add much to her popularity. Her poetry finds friends wherever it goes, for it comes to the heart on the wings of Love, with whose sweet fragrance it is so highly scented. 'I Love to Love,' is a little gem of rare beauty, and found its way into 'Read's Female Poets of America,' with merely the simple name of Marion Ward' attached to it.

'I LOVE to love,' said a darling pet,

Whose soul looked out through her eyes of jet,
And she nestled down like a fondled dove
And lisped, Dear Mamma, how I love to love!'

'I love to love,' said a maiden bright,

And her words gushed forth like a stream of light,
And thrilled to the heart of a suppliant there,
With a ripple, soft as an angel's prayer.

'I love to love,' said a new-made-bride,
As she gazed on the loved one by her side,
And she clung to his arm in the star lit grove,
And breathed on his lips, How I love to love!'

'I love to love,' said a mother blest,

As her first-born lay like a rose on her breast,

And she thought as she smoothed down its silken hair,
That nothing on earth could be half so fair.

And thus, as we sail o'er the ocean of life,
Love pours out its oil on the desert of strife,
And swiftly our bark nears the haven above,

While we've something to hope for and something to love.

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