u. s. Hotel, Penn. Avenue.

ORIGINAL CHARADE.
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THERE'S stream gushes forth from the hills of


delight
To travel life's pathway through pleasure


or woe, q.
But the dark wing Of grief ever hinders its


flight,
And scatters life's blossoms tempestuous


below;
That fount is my FIRST, and its polishing trea-
Lies hid like a gem in the shadows of night.
And its fancying tongue ever tells US with


pleasure,


The dim ray Of future is smiling and bright.
As the mourner drops down at the close of the


day,


To stiAe.the sobs Of his woe-strcken breast,
Then his time fever'd brow waneth down in


decay.


And longs for season of slumber and rest;
The last wreath of hope in his bosom hath


broken,


Whose streams of emotion now sadly may
: flow,
The sweet dream Of pleasure hath vanished


unspoken,
When stunned by my NEXT with its frenzy


ing blow.
When the travelled stained pilgrim unsheltered


afar,


Droops down like gem in the cave of de-


spair,
To glitter at times like hope falling star,
Then sink in the gulf of misfortune and


care;
But lur'd by my WHOLE ere his eyelids>awoke.
He sank as a wave in It's tremuous breath,
No bosom can rise from the palsying stroke.
For its fate is unerring, its slumber is death.
U. S. Hotel, penn Avenue. Pm. D.
Answer TO the Original Charade of yesterday
-Lark-spur.