Soon they built there a fine new street, And noisy coaches sweep With roar and riot,--even where That lady came to weep! Each passing year we note a change In ancient things and new; And if we see so much in one, What may not hundreds do? _Louisa A. Twamley._ * * * * * There’s no power In ancestry, to make the foolish wise, The ignorant learned, the cowardly and base Deserving our respect as brave and good. All men feel this: nor dares the despot say His fiat can endow with truth the soul, Or, like a pension, on the heart bestow The virtues current in the realms above. Hence man’s best riches must be gained--not given; His noblest name deserved, and not derived. _Mrs. Hale._ * * * * * Some men are born to endure the toil and strife And heavy burdens of the earth. They are The pillars in the temple of this life, Its strength and ornament; or, hidden far Beneath, they form its firm foundation-stone. In nobleness they stand distinct and lone, Yet other men upon them lean, and fain (Such selfishness in human bosoms swells) Would lay on them the weight of their own pain. Where greatness is, a patient spirit dwells; They least repine who bear and suffer most: In still and stern endurance they sustain The ills whereof all weaker minds complain; And in their blessed lot they stand, without a sigh or boast. _MacKellar._ YEW.... _Sorrow_. The Yew is among all nations an emblem of sorrow. Its bare trunk, and dark foliage, with which its fruit, looking like drops of blood, stands in harsh contrast, excite in us a sort of aversion. Persons who sleep under a Yew tree are liable to be seized with dizziness, heaviness, and violent headache. Its juice is poisonous, and the tree exhausts the soil which supports it, and destroys all other plants which spring up beneath it. The Yew was planted in old English burying-grounds, and its wood was commonly employed for making bows and arrows before the introduction of fire-arms. The Greeks, impressed with the melancholy aspect of this tree, invented the fable of the unhappy Smilax; who, seeing that her love was rejected by young Crocus, was transformed into a Yew. * * * * * Who that hath ever been, Could bear to be no more? Yet who would tread again the scene He trod through life before? _Montgomery._ * * * * * Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast; Which thou wilt propagate, to have them prest With more of thine: this love, that thou hast shown, Doth add more grief to too much of mine own. _Shakspeare._ * * * * *