THINE TILL DEATH.

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!

HARRIET MARION STEPHENS.

AGE, 31 YEARS.

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 Sta te, 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.,

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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

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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 a: 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!'

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'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'or something to hope for and something to love.

SONG OF THE IMPROVISATRICE.

THERE's a balm on the air, and it drifts along
Like the fragrant breath of a fairy throng;
There's a spell of love on the restless deep,
And the winds are still, and the waves asleep:
And the fringed lids of the summer flowers
Are folded down in their woodland bowers;
But their lips are bright with a dewy flush-
Do they dream of love, through the twilight hush?

'Tis night, and the clouds, with their gorgeous dyes, Have melted away in the pearl-blue skies; "Tis night, and the moon from her shadowy land

Has girdled the sea with a silver band;

Yet sorrowful strains o'er my bosom sweep,
Till my heart is full, and my eyes must weep;
For I miss a voice with its music tone,
And murmur in sadness, Alone, alone!

Alone, all alone! I am thinking now
Of a star-bright eye and a noble brow;
But I miss kind words, and the dimple smile,
And a dear hand clasping my own the while.
'Mine own, mine own!' 'Tis a worn-out strain,
Oft spoken in rapture, oft breathed in disdain ;
Yet the wildest bliss that the world has known
Is found in that sentence- Mine own, mine own!'

My soul was dark, and a wild unrest,
Like a death-shroud, lay on my lonely breast;
But the shadow passed, and I knew not how
Till thy lips were pressed to my burning brow!
The mist dissolved, for the night had gone,
And the beautiful tints of a holy dawn
Swept over my heart with a mighty change,
And filled it with melody deep and strange.

Thou hast gone from me now, and I will not tell
Of the wild, wild thoughts which my bosom swell;
It would give too much to thy earnest heart-
Leaving too little for faith to impart!
Thy spirit is with me- thou canst not forget-
Thou'lt think of me ever with saddened regret ;
Fate may have bereft me -- it cannot control,
For thou art my being the life of my soul!

'Tis night on the mountain- 'tis night on the sea:
Her star-'broidered mantle drapes forest and lea:
Bird music is hushed, and the streams are still,
And the wild leaves throb with a passionate thrill!
Sleep on!-sweetly sleep!-Be thy dreams as bright
As thy soul is strong in its power and might;
Sleep on sweetly sleep, nor list to the moan
Of the minstrel heart, for it weeps alone!