The image of the snowy neck and flaxen hair of the beautiful but unkind fair one, presented so strongly to the rejected lover, as to prevent his performing his daily work, strikes us as highly poetical and true to nature, as we doubt not all genuine lovers will testify. Burns wrote many, very many verses, which were much superior, but Burns wrote some also, which were not so good. _Ruth's answer to Naomi_, must be allowed, we think, to be a good paraphrase of that most affecting passage of scripture. We must give the whole to the reader. "Entreat me not, I must not hear, Mark but this sorrow-beaming tear; Thy answer's written deeply now On this warm cheek and clouded brow; {53} 'Tis gleaming o'er this eye of sadness Which only near _thee_ sparkles gladness. The hearts _most_ dear to us are gone, And _thou_ and _I_ are left alone; Where'er thou wanderest, I will go, I'll follow thee through joy or wo; Shouldst thou to other countries fly, Where'er thou lodgest, there will I. Thy people shall my people be, And to thy God, I'll bend the knee; Whither thou fliest, will I fly, And where thou diest, I will die; And the same sod which pillows thee Shall freshly, sweetly bloom for me."[1] [Footnote 1: We subjoin the passage of scripture paraphrased by Miss Davidson, and also another paraphrase which has been ascribed to the Hon. R. H. Wilde of Georgia. Our readers can compare and decide between them. "And Ruth said, entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go: and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God. Where thou diest will I die, and there will I be buried." Nay, do not ask!--entreat not--no! O no! I will not leave thy side, Whither thou goest--I will go-- Where thou abidest--I'll abide. Through life--in death--my soul to thine Shall cleave as fond, as first it clave-- Thy home--thy people--shall be mine-- Thy God my God--thy grave my grave.] We present an extract from a piece called "_Woman's Love_," as a specimen of Miss Davidson's management of blank verse, a form of poetic diction which Montgomery thinks the most unmanageable of any. The fair authoress might not herself have experienced that holy passion, but she certainly knew how deep and imperishable it is when once planted in the female bosom.