A few weeks after I attended the wedding of my dear cousin Ida—Adelan and I officiating as bride-maids to the gentle creature. She trembled at the excess of her happiness, and never realized how like an angel we all deemed her. She gave me this journal, she said, as a penance for herself, to let me know how wicked she was. Many happy years have been hers, and she still enjoys life. A crowd of beautiful children troop around her; and the violet hue of an angelic atmosphere seems always to pervade her presence, to my fancy.
Her spirit has been one of those which Jean Paul says “falls from heaven like a flower-bud, pure and spotless.” Hers has remained undimmed through life’s toilsome journey, and the pure, fresh bud has opened, exhaling spiritual fragrance on all around her.
LUCRETIA.
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BY HENRY B. HIRST.
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There rolled a howl along the streets of Rome,
As if its ancient patron, to the skies,