_Spenser._ ALOE.... _Grief_. The Aloe is attached to the soil by very feeble roots; it delights to grow in the wilderness, and its taste is extremely bitter. Thus grief separates us from earthly things, and fills the heart with bitterness. These magnificent and monstrous plants are found in barbarous Africa: they grow upon rocks, in dry sand under a burning atmosphere. Some have leaves six feet long, and armed with long spires. From the centre of these leaves shoots up a slender stem covered with flowers. Sister Sorrow! sit beside me, Or, if I must wander, guide me: Let me take thy hand in mine, Cold alike are mine and thine. Think not, Sorrow, that I hate thee,-- Think not I am frightened at thee,-- Thou art come for some good end; I will treat thee as a friend. _R. M. Milnes._ * * * * * And this is all I have left now, Silence and solitude and tears; The memory of a broken vow, My blighted hopes, my wasted years! _Anon._ * * * * * It may be that I shall forget my grief; It may be time has good in store for me; It may be that my heart will find relief From sources now unknown. Futurity May bear within its folds some hidden spring From which will issue blessed streams; and yet Whate’er of joy the coming year may bring, The past--the past--I never can forget. _Mrs. Hale._ * * * * * Of comfort no man speak: Let’s talk of graves, of worms, of epitaphs: Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth. Let’s choose executors, and talk of wills; And yet not so--for what can we bequeath, Save our deposed bodies in the ground? _Shakspeare._ WORMWOOD. ... _Absence._ Wormwood is the bitterest of plants; and absence, according to La Fontaine, is the worst of evils. Those in whose anxious breasts the “flame divine” is burning, will agree with the French author in his assertion. To be absent from one we love is to carry a vacant chamber in the heart, which naught else can fill. When thou shalt yield to memory’s power, And let her fondly lead thee o’er The scenes that thou hast past before, To absent friends and days gone by,-- Then should these meet thy pensive eye, A true memento may they be Of one whose bosom owes to thee So many hours enjoyed in gladness, That else perhaps had passed in sadness, And many a golden dream of joy, Untarnished and without alloy. Oh, still my fervent prayer will be, “Heaven’s choicest blessings rest on thee.” _Miss Gould._ * * * * *