Though the rock of my last hope is shivered, And its fragments are sunk in the wave, Though I feel that my soul is delivered To pain,--it shall not be its slave. There is many a pang to pursue me: They may crush, but they shall not contemn; They may torture, but shall not subdue me,-- ’Tis of thee that I think, not of them. _Byron._ * * * * * ’Tis sweet, and yet ’tis sad, that gentle power, Which throws in winter’s lap the spring-tide flower: I love to dream of days my childhood knew, When, with the sister of my heart, time flew On wings of innocence and hope! dear hours, When joy sprang up about our path, like flowers! _Mrs. A. M. Wells._ * * * * * The lesser Periwinkle’s bloom, Like carpet of Damascus’ loom, Pranks with bright blue the tissue wove Of verdant foliage: and above With milk-white flowers, whence soon shall swell Red fruitage, to the taste and smell Pleasant alike, the Strawberry weaves Its coronets of three-fold leaves In mazes through the sloping wood. _Mant._ * * * * * Where captivates the sky-blue Periwinkle Under the cottage eaves. _Hurdis._ * * * * * Remember thee? Yea, from the table of my memory I’ll wipe away all trivial fond records, All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past, That youth and observation copied there; And thy commandment all alone shall live Within the book and volume of my brain, Unmixed with baser matter. _Shakspeare._ * * * * * Oh! only those Whose souls have felt this one idolatry Can tell how precious is the slightest thing Affection gives and hallows! A dead flower Will long be kept, remembrancer of looks That made each leaf a treasure. _Miss Landon._ SWEET-BRIER, OR EGLANTINE.... _Poetry_. The Eglantine is the poet’s flower. In the floral games, it was the prize for the best composition on the charms of study and eloquence. Though its flowers are most beautiful in hue, their fragrance is their more valuable quality. In like manner, the charms of poetry and eloquence should be considered superior to those of appearance. * * * * * And well the poet, at her shrine, May bend and worship while he woos; To him she is a thing divine, The inspiration of his line, His loved one, and his muse. If to his song the echo rings Of fame--’tis woman’s voice he hears; If ever from his lyre’s proud strings Flow sounds, like rush of angel wings, ’Tis that she listens, while he sings, With blended smiles and tears. _Halleck._ * * * * *