You triumph in the noble trick you’ve found, Of winning love and trust from all around; While cold and reckless, with a sneer at heart, You plead, manœuvre, bind with Circe art. But day by day, the flimsy veil grows thin, And clearer shows the worthless waste within; And one by one, th’ idolators resign The wavering flame of their Parhelion’s shrine. The mysterious book was then handed to Georgine, who took it tranquilly, and read in a most musically modulated voice, while a faint rose-color warmed her usually hueless cheek. TO ——. Ah! do not let us worse than waste, In idle dalliance, hours so dear; At best, the light-winged moments haste Too quickly by with hope and fear. Be ours to wreath, (as swift in flight They pass—those ‘children of the sun,’) With Fancy’s flowers, each wing of light, And gems from Reason’s casket won. The Passion-flower has no perfume,— No soul to linger when it dies; For lighter hearts such buds may bloom, But, oh! be ours more proudly wise. And wouldst thou bind my soul to thine, Bid Truth and Wisdom forge the chain; Nor o’er its links, as bright they twine, Let Folly breathe one burning stain. Thy mind—so rich in classic lore,— Thy heart, from worldly taint so free; Ah! let me not the hours _deplore_, Which might be all _embalmed_ by thee. At last the “will-o’-the-wisp” was called upon for a recitation, and after laughing, and blushing, and scolding, and making as “much ado about nothing” as the Lady Heron did about singing “Young Lochinvar,” she gave, in her own peculiar way, the following song:— They call me a careless coquette; That often, too often, I _change_; they chide Because every being on earth I’ve met, Of the glorious mark in my hope falls wide. It is only a yearning of soul, For the lovely—the noble—the true and pure; A fond aspiration beyond my control, That was born with my being, and must endure. But I know that shadow and shine Must over this world, float side by side; That Reason and Folly still entwine Their flowers of light and bells of pride. And I, in whose heart so wild, Too often Love’s music in Discord dies; Oh! should I not—idle and dreaming child— Shrink back from a being all pure and wise? I will hush in my heart that trust, I will hide from the world that daring dream, And seek in the sand for the golden dust, Since ever they mingle in Life’s deep stream.