Th’ unfeeling heart can never know, By cold indifference guarded, The joy, the transport, that will flow From love and truth rewarded. True sensibility we find Shares in another’s grief; And pity yields the generous mind From sympathy relief. The point discussed, we find this rule, A rule both true and sad; Who feels too little is--a fool; Who feels too much--runs mad. ❦ “_L’amicale persévérance_,” was the term by which the _Countess de Lichtenau_ designated her connection with Frederick William II. King of Prussia. In speaking of the attachment of our Henry VIII. to the Lady Elizabeth, wife of Sir Thomas Boleyn, and mother to Anne, afterwards his Queen, Lloyd says, she was _his solace, not his sin_. ❦ _Epigram on reading an article in the Newspapers, stating that the Garrison of Dantzic had eaten their last Horse._ By the newsmen we’re told, and believe it of course, That the people of Dantzic had eat their last horse; In resources, how much should we Dantzic surpass Could we only hold out, till we eat our last _ass_. ❦ _To the May Fly._ Thou art a frail and lively thing Engender’d by the sun; A moment only on the wing, And thy career is done. Thou sportest in the evening beam An hour--an age to thee-- In gaiety above the stream Which soon thy grave must be. Although thy life is like to thee, An atom--art thou not Far happier than thou e’er could’st be, If long life were thy lot? For then deep pangs might wound thy breast, And make thee wish for death; But as it is thou’rt soon at rest, Thou creature of a breath! And man’s life passeth thus away, A thing of joy and sorrow; The earth he treads upon to-day Shall cover him to-morrow. “As the sun declines the misnamed ‘May-fly’ is to be seen emerging from the surface of shallow streams, and lying there for a time till its wings are dried for flight. Escaping after a protracted struggle of half a minute from its watery birth place, it flutters restlessly up and down over the same spot during its whole era of a summer evening, and at last dies as the last streaks of day are leaving the western horizon. Yet, who shall say, that in that space of time it has not undergone all the vicissitudes of a long and eventful life? That it has not felt all the freshness of youth, all the vigour of maturity, all the weakness and satiety of old age, and all the pangs of death itself? In short, who shall satisfy us that any essential difference exists between _its_ four hours, and _our_ fourscore years?” ❦ [Sidenote: From my Mother.]