_Peerbold._ * * * * * ’Tis not enough your counsel shall be true; Blunt truths more mischief than nice falsehoods do. Men must be taught as if you taught them not, And things unknown proposed as things forgot. Without good breeding, truth is disapproved; That only makes superior sense beloved. _Pope._ * * * * * Truth needs no flowers of speech. _Pope._ * * * * * When fiction rises pleasing to the eye, Men will believe, because they love the lie; But truth herself, if clouded with a frown, Must have some solemn proofs to pass her down. _Churchill._ * * * * * All truth is precious, if not all divine, And what dilates the powers must needs refine. _Cowper._ * * * * * Verily there is nothing so false, that a sparkle of truth is not in it. _Tupper._ * * * * * This above all, to thine own self be true; And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man. _Shakspeare._ * * * * * What is truth?--a staff rejected. _Wordsworth._ * * * * * It is a weary and a bitter task Back from the lip the burning word to keep, And to shut out heaven’s air with falsehood’s mask, And in the dark urn of the soul to heap Indignant feelings--making e’en of thought A buried treasure. _Mrs. Hemans._ THE SWEET FLAG--ACORUS CALAMUS.... _Grace_. One autumn eve I sat alone Beside my study fire; I’d written long, and eyes and head And fingers ’gan to tire. I rose to shut my desk, and go-- Quite weary--half asleep-- A book fell open as I moved; E’en sleepy eyes must peep; And, pictured on its page, I saw The portrait of a friend, Whose smiling face bade my dull thoughts To happy memories wend. It was the tall, sweet-scented Flag, Lay pictured there so true, I could have deemed some fairy hand The faithful image drew. The falchion-leaves, all long and sharp; The stem, like a tall leaf too, Except where, halfway up its side, A cone-shaped flower-spike grew, Like a lady’s finger, taper, long, From end to end arrayed In close scale-armour, that was all Of starry flowers made. If you could fancy fairy folk Would mimic works of ours, You’d think their dainty fingers here Had wrought mosaic flowers. The tiny petals, neatly formed, With geometric skill, Are each one so exactly shaped, Its proper place to fill. And stamens, like fine golden dust, Spangle the flowerets green; Aught more compact and beautiful, Mine eyes have never seen!