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The flame that saw the water beautiful And sought to clasp it to its fervid heart, Held, as Ixion held his love, a cloud !

So love is ever slain of love,-and thou,
Wilt thou too pass away and be to me,
To me who love, a memory and tears?

Il'illiam Sawyer.

MAN'S LOVE. It must ever be borne in mind that man's love, even its happiest exercise, is not like woman's ; for while she employs herself through every hour in fondly weaving the beloved image into all her thoughts, he gives , to her comparatively few of his ; and of these, perhaps, not the loftiest nor the best. It is a wise beginning, then, for every married woman to make up her mind to have many rivals, too, in her husband's attentions, though not in his love ; and among these I would mention one whose claims it is folly to dispute --I refer to the journal or newspaper of the day, of whose absorbing interest some wives are weak enough to evince a sort of childish jealousy, when they ought rather to congratulate themselves that their most formidable rival is one of paper.

Airs. Ellis.

Love glorifieth the day of flowers,
Love sanctifies the night of stars.


In the molten golden moonlight,

In the deep grass warm and dry, We watch'd the fire-fly rise and swim

In floating sparkles by. All night the hearts of nightingales,

Song-steeping, slumb'rous leaves, Flow'd to us in the shadow there,

Below the cottage-eaves.

ITS CHASTE PURITY. ALL honour to woman! to her it is given To entwine with earth's garlands the roses of

heaven, To weave all the bliss-giving chains of the

heart; And in Modesty's veil while she chastely

retires, To kindle the brightest, the holiest fires, The pure beam of feeling that ne'er can depart.

Schiller (translated by Edward, Earl of Derby).

We sang our songs together

Till the stars shook in the skies; We spoke- we spoke of common things,

Yet the tears were in our eyes. And my hand I know it trembled

To each light warm touch of thine ; But we were friends, and only friends,

My sweet friend, Leoline !

GOODNESS AND NOBILITY. Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be

clever ; Do noble things, not dream them, all day

long : And so make life, death, and that vast for-ever One grand, sweet song.

Charles Kingsley.

How large the white moon look'd, dear!

There has not ever been, Since those old nights, the same great light

In the moons which I have seen. I often wonder, when I think,

If you have thought so too, And the moonlight has grown dimmer, dear,

Than it used to be to you.

LOVE'S EXTREME-LOVE'S DEFEAT. To love, and in excess of loving lose, This is the lot of all things, and of all, For ever love's extreme is love's defeat. The sky that held the one white cloud of noon And warm'd it in its bosom, lost it so In rainbow flushes and in diamond rain. The air that loved the flame and fondled it, And fed it into beauty with itself, Quench'd out its life with over-cherishing.

And sometimes, when the warm west wind

Comes faint across the sea,
It seems that you have breathed on it,

So sweet it comes to me :
And sometimes, when the long light wanes

In one deep crimson line,
I muse, “and does she watch it too,

Far off, sweet Leoline ?”

And often, leaning all day long

My head upon my hands, My heart aches for the vanish'd time

In the far fair foreign lands.

Thinking sadly, “ Is she happy?

Has she tears for those old hours? And the cottage in the starlight ?

And the songs among the flowers?”

One night we sat below the porch,

And out in that warm air A fire-fly, like a dying star,

Fell iangled in her hair : But I kiss'd him lightly off again,

And he glitter'd up the vine, And died into the darkness

For the love of Leoline !

THE LESSON OF LOVE. Charles, must I say, what strange it seems

to say, This rebel heart that Love hath held as

naught, Or, hapiy, in his cunning mazes caught, Would laugh, and let his captive steal away ; This simple heart hath now become his

prey ; Yet hath no golden tress this lesson taught, No vermeil cheek that shames the rising day. Oh, no! 'twas beauty's most celestial ray, With charms divine of sovereign sweetness

fraught! The noble mien, the soul-dissolving air, The bright arch bending o'er the lucid eye,

The voice, that breathing melody so rare, Might lead the toild morn from the middle

Between two songs of Petrarch

I've a purple rose-leaf prest,
More sweet than common rose-leaves,

For it once lay in her breast.
When she gave me that her eyes were wet:

The rose was full of dew : The rose is wither'd long ago !

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Charles, when such mischief arm'd this

foreign fair, Small chance had' I to hope this simple heart should fly.


There's a blue flower in my garden

The bee loves more than all ; The bee and I, we love it both,

Though it is frail and small.
She loved it 100-long, long ago;

Her love was less than mine.
Still we are friends, but only friends,
My lost love, Leoline!

Owen Meredith,


Ah ! let our love be still a folded flower,

A pure moss rose-bud blushing to be seen, its balm and beauty for that hour When souls may meet with not the day


DESPAIRING LOVE. If this be love to draw a weary breath,

Let not a breath of passion dare to blow

Its tender, timid, clinging leaves apart! Let not the sunbeam, with too ardent glow,

Profane the dewy freshness at its heart !

With downward looks still reading to the

earth The sad memorials of my love's despair ; If this be love to war against my soul, Lie down to wail, rise up to sigh and

grieve, The never-resting stone of care to roll, Fail to complain my griess, whilst none

relieve ; If this be love to clothe me with dark

thoughts, Haunting untrodden paths to wail apart; My pleasure, horror, music, tragic notes, Tears in mine eyes, and sorrow at my

heart ; If this be love to live a living death, Then do I love, and draw this weary breath.

Samuel Daniel.

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WOMAN'S LOVE A HOLY LIGHT. But Sir Launcelot's shield was lost in the

Bert Sir Lancelotte Shield wone in Oh! woman's love's a holy light!

fray, And when 'tis kindled ne'er can die;

And his heart of stone was melted to clay ; It lives though treachery and slight

He was vanquish'd in spite of his To quench the constant fame may try.

boast Like ivy, where it grows 'tis seen

One smiling face dispelld the dark frown ; To wear an everlasting green ;

A single aim had brought him down,

'Twas only a waiting-maiden that won : Like ivy, too, 'tis found to cling

At a country inn his wooing was done; Too often round a worthless thing

With a basin of milk and some toast. Oh, woman's love! at times it may Seem cold or clouded, but it burns

Sir Launcelot's pleading already begun; With true undeviating ray,

The maiden glanced slyly as if at the sun) Nor ever from its idol turns

At the suitor so tender-so gay. Its sunshine is a smile,-a frown

She thought she might love, yet she feared to The heavy cloud that weighs it down ; A tear its weapon is-beware

With an innocent pride she was bashful and Of woman's tears, there's danger there!

cov, Its sweetest place on which to rest,

And she trembled as tenderer words he said, A constant and confiding breast

As if his breath were a breeze she must Its joy, to meet-its death, to part

dread, Its sepulchre, a broken heart.

Lest it blew all her summer away.


Sir Launcelot married, the news travelld far :

" His boast was remember'd-most evil things Love is not love

areWhich alters when it alteration tinds,

And the world laugh'd aloud in its mirth. Or bends with the remover to remove : · But Sir Launcelot said he had grown more Oh no! it is an ever-fixed mark,

wise, That looks on tempests, and is never shaken; For an angel had dropp'd from her place in It is the star to every wandering bark,

the skies ; Whose worth's unknown, although his height And 'twas not the woman he loved, though be taken.

he knew Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and That her face was fair, and her eyes were checks

blue. Within his bending sickle's compass come; 'Twas the heart that he loved, for 'twas Love alters not with his brief hours and

tender and true, weeks,

And bore none of the fashion of earth, But bears it out, e'en to the edge of doom.

Frederick S. Mills. If this be error, and upon me proved I never writ, nor no man ever love!.



The influence of women is, or ought to be, Sir Launcelot boasted he never would wed; la moral influence; and that it may have its He was proof against “woman's wiles," he full effect, the main object of their education said,-

ought to be to expand and perfect their moral And would lead the life of the free.

nature, and to implant deeply the fact of A smile would but glance from his shield of their influence, and their own consequent scorn,

responsibilities. This foundation being laid, A tear would be miss'd on the way it was let women be elegant, be accomplished, be borne,

everything that society requires of them; but And an army of Cupids, airy and dim, let them not forget that these powers are not Would fail in their aim if they aimed at him ; given for themselves, but for God's glory and He never would marry-not he.

the good of their fellow-creatures. Thus pink,

shall they be not only caressed, admired,

REFLECTED BY NATURE. honoured, but happy; happy in the happiness

Love is a mirror, love, bright in the dawn, of unselfishness, of devotedness, of love,-the

Where blue eyes see true eyes, and black only happiness here below which can give us

eyes see bright; any foretaste of that which is to be enjoyed

Where maidens go peeping, as peepeth the above.

fawn Anon.

In the stream that the stars love and fondle

by night. THE POWER OF LOVE.

Then, as pure as thou art,

It will chasten the heart: Time's waters cannot ebb or stay,

Then love is as virtue, love, peaceful and Power cannot change them, but love may;

white. \Vhat cannot be, love counts it done.


Love is a river, love, fair in the day,
And flowers grow thickly and sweet on its

brink; Man, while he loves, is never quite depraved,

e depraved. And maidens will pluck them, and cast them And woman's triumph is a lover saved.

away, Hon. G. Lamb.

Till one bud or blossom, one blue-bell or

In falling will take

A heart in its wake,

And maiden will follow, love, follow and
To my heart thou art dear


Evelyn Ferrold. As honour to my name; dear as the light To eyes but just restored, and heald of THE STEDFAST LOVE OF WOMAN. blindness.


Thrice happy she that is so well assured

Unto herself, and settled so in heart,

That neither will for better be allured, ENHANCES EVERY ENJOYMENT.

Ne fears to worse with any chance to start,

But like a steady ship doth strongly part So every object charms! With thee, even The raging waves, and keeps her course books

aright ; A higher relish gain. The poet's lay

Ne ought for tempest doth from it depart, Grows sweeter in the shade of wavy woods, Ne ought for fairer weather's false delight. Or lulling lapse of crystal stream beside ; Such self-assurance need not fear the spight Dim umbrage lends to philosophic lore

Of grudging foes, ne favour seek of friends ; Severer thought ; and Meditation leads

But in the stay of her own stedfast might, Her pupil, Wisdom, to the green resort

Neither to one herself or other bends. Of solemn silence, her inspiring school. Most happy she that most assured doth rest, Bidlake. But he most happy who such one loves best.

Spenser, MUSIC FROM LIPS WE LOVE. If even words are sweet, what, what is song

JEALOUS LOVE. When lips we love the melody prolong?

Such love is like a smoky fire How thrills the soul and vibrates to that lay, | In a cold morning; though the fire be Swells with the glorious sound, or dies away! cheerful, How to the cadence of the simplest words Yet is the smoke so sour and cumbersome, That ever hung upon the wild harp's chords 'Twere better lose the fire than find the The breathless heart lies listening, as it felt

smoke. All life within it on that music dwelt;

Such an attendant then as smoke to fire And hush'd the beating pulse's rapid power, Is jealousy to love ; better want both By its own will, for that enchanted hour. | Than have both. Hon. Mrs. Norton. |



When I watch not your going, far down the

long street, Evin then, her presence had the power

| When your dear loving voice, so thrillingly To soothe, to warm, --nay, ev'n to bless

sweet, If ever bliss could graft its flower

Grows harsh in reproach or command : On stem so full of bitterness ;

Ah me!
Evin then her glorious smile to me

How strange it will be !
Brought warmth and radiance, if not balm,
Like moonlight on a troubled sea,

How strange it will be when we willingly stay Brightening the storm it cannot calm.


Divided the weary day through !
Or getting remotely apart as we may,
Sit chilly and silent with nothing to say,

Or coolly converse on the news of the day,

In a wearisome, old married-folk sort of Such a lord is Love,

I shrink from the picture, don't you ? And Beauty such a mistress of the world.


Ah me!
How strange it will be !



How strange it will be, love-how strange

when we two

Shall be what most lovers become,
You rigid and loveless, I cold and untrue,
You thoughtless of me, and I careless of you,
Our pet names grown rusty with nothing

to do,
Love's bright net unravell’d, and rent, and

worn through,
And lise's loom left empty-ah hum !

Ah me!
How strange it will be !

Dear love, if our hearts do grow torpid and


As so many others have done;
If we let our love perish with hunger and cold,
If we dim all life's diamonds and tarnish its

If we choose to live wretched and die un-

'Twill be strangest of all things that ever

were told,
As happening under the sun.

Ah me!
How strange it will be !


How strange it will be, when the witchery

goes Which makes me seem lovely to-day ; When your thought of me loses its couleur

de-rose, When every day serves some new fault to

disclose, When you find I've cold eyes and an every

day nose,
And wonder you could for a moment suppose
I was out of the common-place way :

Ah me!
How strange it will be !

Love is a thing to walk with, hand in hand,
Through the every-dayness of this work-day

Baring its tender feet to every roughness,
Yet letting not one heart-beat go astray
From Beauty's law of plainness and content;
A simple, fire-side thing, whose quiet smile
Can warm earth's poorest hovel to a home;
Which, when our autumn cometh, as it must,
And life in the chill wind shivers bare and

Shall still be blest with Indian-summer youth
In bleak November, and, with thankful heart,
Smile on its ample stores of garner d fruit,
As full of sunshine to our aged eyes
As when it nursed the blossoms of our spring.
Such is true love, which steals into the heart
With feet as silent as the lightsome dawn
That kisses smooth the rough brows of the


How strange it will be, love-how strange

when we meet

With just a chill touch of the hand; When my pulses no longer delightfully beat At the thought of your coming, at the sound

of your feet,

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