MRS. CHARLES N. CADWALLADER,

The year rolls round, and brings again

The bright, auspicious day,

The marriage scene, the festive cheer,

The group serenely gay,

The hopes that nurs'd by sun and shower

O'er youth's fair trellis wound,

And in that consecrated rite

Their full fruition found.

But One unseen amid the throng

Drew near with purpose fell,

And lo! the orange-flowers were changed

To mournful asphodel.

Five sabbaths walk'd the beautiful

Her chosen lord beside,

But ere the sixth illumed the sky

She was that dread One's bride.

Yet call her not the bride of Death

Though in his bed she sleeps,

And broidering Myrtle richly green

O'er her cold pillow creeps:

She hath a bower where angels dwell,

A mansion with the blest,

For Jesus whom she trusted here,

Receiv'd her to His rest.