Speak but a thrilling word, and you shall meet In those so dreamy eyes, that heed you not, The shadow of your own ecstatic thoughts,-- Those lips, so passive now, shall echo back The earnest tones of your own eloquence. But do not measure her internal strength By any standard of man's magnitude. Nor think to fathom what no eye can reach,-- She hath a woman's heart, and it hath been The constant struggle of her watchful life, To curb her will, and bend her energies, And train her nature for her destiny; And conscious that she hath a marshalled host, Obedient to the mandates of her soul, She wears a placid brow, and dreads no foe. A thoughtless word upon affection's tongue, A look of coldness from a cherished friend, A hardened thought, that wrongs her of her due, And makes her seem what she would scorn to be, Imputing motives she would blush to own,-- Her spirit, safe from storms and rude alarms, Is too susceptible to wounds like these; But that calm face will ne'er reveal to thee, Nay, from her dearest friends she'll most conceal, The bitter anguish they can measure not. Then do not say her tranquil brow is tame. A passive soul hath ne'er the dignity That sits, a queen, upon her passive face; 'Tis nobler far to rule the spirit realm, Than gather laurels from the battle-field. LOST AND WON. BY CAROLINE EUSTIS. Lost the freshness of life's morning; Lost the tints of rosy light, Which like daylight, perfect dawning, Covered all with glory bright; Lost the golden locks which shaded Brow so smooth, and eyes so blue, And the happy smile has faded Round those lips of rosy hue. I have lost,--but I have won. Lost the kind oblivious sleeping, Which enshrouds the little child, Like the holy angels keeping Saintly watches,--calm and mild. Lost the dreams of sunny hours, Where no terror dare intrude; Lost the dreams of love and flowers, Of the beautiful and good. I have lost,--but I have won. Lost!--oh, most of all the losses!-- Lost the childlike, earnest faith, Loving on mid joys and crosses, Thankful still for all it hath. I have lost youth's simple pleasures, Each departed, one by one; But--oh, blessing without measure!-- I have lost,--but I have won. I have won, through earnest striving, Guerdons above all the loss, Hopes once faded, now reviving Twining round the sacred Cross: Sorrow pale hath been my teacher; Hopes bereft, my gentle friends; Graves of the loved, my silent preacher, Where dust with dust so sadly blends. I have lost,--but I have won.