In the prose compositions we notice some of intense interest, among which are the Stranger Patron and the Castle of Reinspadte—­both of German origin.  There is too, a faithful historiette of the Battle of Trafalgar, which, with the History of the Family of Sir Thomas More, will be read with peculiar attention.  Our extracts from the poetical department are by Mrs. Hemans and Miss Landon.

THE SLEEPERS.

  Oh! lightly, lightly tread! 
  A holy thing is sleep. 
  On the worn spirit shed,
  And eyes that wake to weep: 

  A holy thing from heaven,
  A gracious dewy cloud,
  A covering mantle, given
  The weary to enshroud.

  Oh! lightly, lightly tread! 
  Revere the pale still brow,
  The meekly drooping head,
  The long hair’s willowy flow!

  Ye know not what ye do,
  That call the slumberer back,
  From the world unseen by you,
  Unto Life’s dim faded track.

  Her soul is far away,
  In her childhood’s land perchance,
  Where her young sisters play,
  Where shines her mother’s glance.

  Some old sweet native sound
  Her spirit haply weaves;
  A harmony profound
  Of woods with all their leaves: 

  A murmur of the sea,
  A laughing tone of streams:—­
  Long may her sojourn be
  In the music-land of dreams!

  Each voice of love is there,
  Each gleam of beauty fled. 
  Each lost one still more fair—­
  Oh! lightly, lightly tread!

Miss Landon has contributed more to the “Bijou” than to any other Annual, and a piece from her distinguished pen will increase the value and variety of our columns.

THE FEAST OF LIFE.

  I bid thee to my mystic Feast,
  Each one thou lovest is gathered there;
  Yet put thou on a mourning robe,
  And bind the cypress in thy hair.

  The hall is vast, and cold, and drear;
  The board with faded flowers is spread: 
  Shadows of beauty flit around,
  But beauty from each bloom has fled;

  And music echoes from the walls,
  But music with a dirge-like sound;
  And pale and silent are the guests,
  And every eye is on the ground.

  Here, take this cup, tho’ dark it seem,
  And drink to human hopes and fears;
  ’Tis from their native element
  The cup is filled—­it is of tears.

  What! turnest thou with averted brow? 
  Thou scornest this poor feast of mine;
  And askest for a purple robe,
  Light words, glad smiles, and sunny wine.

  In vain, the veil has left thine eyes,
  Or such these would have seemed to thee;
  Before thee is the Feast of Life,
  But life in its reality!