PINE, Spruce. 



(Continued.) 



And oft in sorrow's lonely hour, 



Thy memory on my soul will steal, 

 Like music's strain, with magic power 



To chase away each thought of ill. : 



Farewell ! may sorrow never thrill 



That breast, where truth and peace reside, 



But unprofaned by anguish still, 



May all thy hours in sweetness glide. 



R. R*****l. 



Farewell ! for I must leave thee, 

 I weep my last adieu. . . . 



Song. 



Farewell ! In that word that fatal word howe'er 

 We promise hope believe there breathes despair. 



Byron. 



PINK, The Carnation. 



Dianthus caryophyllus. 



Woman's love. Yes, woman's love is free from guile, 



And pure as bright Aurora's ray. . . G. P. Morris. 



fo, 



Oh ! where on the earth is the truth that may vie, 

 With woman's love and long constancy ? 

 Absence but makes her love the more, 

 For her thoughts then feed on their own sweet store. 

 And is not hers the heart alone 



That hath pleasure and pride, in a prize, when won 1 \ 



L. E>L. 



Alas, the love of woman ! it is known 

 To be a lovely and a fearful thing ; 

 For all of theirs upon that die is thrown, 

 And if 'tis lost, life has no more to bring 

 To them, but mockeries of the past alone. 



. Byron. 



It is a fearful thing 



To love as I love thee ; to feel the world 

 The bright, the beautiful, joy-giving world 

 A blank without thee. Never more to me 

 Can hope, joy, fear, wear different seeming. Now, 

 I have no hope that does not dream for thee ; 

 I have no joy, that is not shared by thee ; 

 I have no fear, that does not dread for thee. 

 All that I once took pleasure in my lute, 

 Is only sweet when it repeats thy name ; 

 My flowers, I only gather them for thee ; 

 The book drops listless down, I cannot read, 

 Unless it is to thee ; my lonely hours 

 Are spent in shaping forth our future lives, 

 After my own romantic fantasies. 

 He is the star round which my thoughts revolve 



Like satellites L. E. L. 



The Ancestress. 



