A fair, young, thoughtful face—and very pale Is the soft dimpled cheek, and o’er her brow Lingereth a strange, wild beauty; many a tale Thy bright ideal weaveth for her now. Those breathing lips!—they speak not, but you feel Love’s thrilling kiss, hath mingled with his sigh, The dreamy depths of those dark eyes reveal The soul of Sappho’s song—_to love or die_! Yet on that fair, young brow is set the seal Of woman’s firm resolve, and o’er-mastering high. * * * * * THOMAS CARLYLE AND HIS WORKS. BY HENRY D. THOREAU. (_Concluded from page 152._) But he is wilfully and pertinaciously unjust, even scurrilous, impolite, ungentlemanly; calls us “Imbeciles,” “Dilettants,” “Philistines,” implying sometimes what would not sound well expressed. If he would adopt the newspaper style, and take back these hard names—but where is the reader who does not derive some benefit from these epithets, applying them to himself? Think not that with each repetition of them there is a fresh overflowing of bile; oh no! Perhaps none at all after the first time, only a faithfulness, the right name being found, to apply it—“They are the same ones we meant before”—and ofttimes with a genuine sympathy and encouragement expressed. Indeed, there appears in all his writings a hearty and manly sympathy with all misfortune and wretchedness, and not a weak and sniveling one. They who suspect a Mephistophiles, or sneering, satirical devil, under all, have not learned the secret of true humor, which sympathizes with the gods themselves, in view of their grotesque, half-finished creatures.