Do any thing but love; or, if thou lovest, And art a woman, hide thy love from him Whom thou dost worship. Never let him know How dear he is; flit like a bird before him; Lead him from tree to tree, from flower to flower; But be not won; or thou wilt, like that bird, When caught and caged, be left to pine neglected, And perish in forgetfulness. _Miss Landon._ * * * * * O many a summer’s morning glow Has lent the rose its ray, And many a winter’s drifting snow Has swept its bloom away; But she has kept the faithless pledge To this, her winter hour, And keeps it still, herself alone, And wasted like the flower. _O. W. Holmes._ * * * * * My heart is with its early dream; It cannot turn away To seek again the joys of earth, And mingle with the gay. The dew-nursed flower that lifts its brow Beneath the shades of night, Must wither when the sunbeam sheds Its too resplendent light. My heart is with its early dream, And vainly love’s soft power Would seek to charm that heart anew, In some unguarded hour. I would not that some gentle one Should hear my frequent sigh; The deer that bears its death-wound, turns In loneliness to die. _Mrs. Embury._ FENNEL.... _Strength_. Oh, fear not in a world like this, And thou shalt know ere long, Know how sublime a thing it is, To suffer and grow strong. _Longfellow._ * * * * * As the slow beast with heavy strength indued In some wide field by troops of boys pursued, Though round his sides a wooden tempest rain, Crops the tall harvest, and lays waste the plain; Thick on his hide the hollow blows resound, The patient animal maintains his ground, Scarce from the field with all their efforts chased, And stirs but slowly when he stirs at last. On Ajax thus a weight of Trojans hung, The strokes redoubled on his buckler rung; Confiding now in bulky strength he stands, Now turns, and backward bears the yielding bands: Now stiff recedes, yet hardly seems to fly, And threats his followers with retorted eye. Fixed as the bar between two warring powers, While hissing darts descend in iron showers: In his broad buckler many a weapon stood, Its surface bristled with a quivering wood; And many a javelin, guiltless, on the plain Marks the dry dust, and thirsts for blood in vain. _Pope._ * * * * *