We count the broken lyres that rest
    Where the sweet wailing singers slumber,—­
  But o’er their silent sister’s breast
    The wild flowers who will stoop to number? 
  A few can touch the magic string,
    And noisy Fame is proud to win them;—­
  Alas for those that never sing,
    But die with all their music in them!

  Nay, grieve not for the dead alone
    Whose song has told their hearts’ sad story,—­
  Weep for the voiceless, who have known
    The cross without the crown of glory! 
  Not where Leucadian breezes sweep
    O’er Sappho’s memory-haunted billow,
  But where the glistening night-dews weep
    On nameless sorrow’s churchyard pillow.

  O hearts that break and give no sign
    Save whitening lip and fading tresses,
  Till Death pours out his cordial wine
    Slow-dropped from Misery’s crushing presses,—­
  If singing breath or echoing chord
    To every hidden pang were given,
  What endless melodies were poured,
    As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven!

I hope that our landlady’s daughter is not so badly off, after all.  That young man from another city, who made the remark which you remember about Boston State-house and Boston folks, has appeared at our table repeatedly of late, and has seemed to me rather attentive to this young lady.  Only last evening I saw him leaning over her while she was playing the accordion,—­indeed, I undertook to join them in a song, and got as far as “Come rest in this boo-oo,” when, my voice getting tremulous, I turned off, as one steps out of a procession, and left the basso and soprano to finish it.  I see no reason why this young woman should not be a very proper match for a man that laughs about Boston State-house.  He can’t be very particular.

The young fellow whom I have so often mentioned was a little free in his remarks, but very good-natured.—­Sorry to have you go,—­he said.—­Schoolma’am made a mistake not to wait for me.  Haven’t taken anything but mournin’ fruit at breakfast since I heard of it.—­Mourning fruit,—­said I,—­what’s that?—­Huckleberries and blackberries,—­said he;—­couldn’t eat in colors, raspberries, currants, and such, after a solemn thing like this happening.—­The conceit seemed to please the young fellow.  If you will believe it, when we came down to breakfast the next morning, he had carried it out as follows.  You know those odious little “saaes-plates” that figure so largely at boarding-houses, and especially at taverns, into which a strenuous attendant female trowels little dabs, sombre of tint and heterogeneous of composition, which it makes you feel homesick to look at, and into which you poke the elastic coppery teaspoon with the air of a cat dipping her foot into a wash-tub,—­(not that I mean to say anything against them, for, when they are of tinted porcelain or starry many-faceted crystal, and hold clean bright berries, or pale virgin honey, or “lucent syrups