422 MORE POT-POURRI 



instrument and engine of nature, the bond and cement 

 of society, the spring and spirit of the universe. It is 

 of that active, restless nature that it must of neces- 

 sity exert itself ; and like the fire, to which it is often 

 compared, it is not a free agent to choose whether it will 

 heat or no, but it streams forth by natural results and 

 unavoidable emanations, so that it will fasten upon an 

 inferior, unsuitable object rather than none at all. The 

 soul may sooner leave off to subsist than to love ; and, 

 like the vine, it withers and dies if it has nothing to 

 embrace.' Here are some lines by a French woman who 

 feels the sadness of love : 



Car la douleur, h61as ! est I'ombre de I'amour 

 Et le suit, pas £l pas, et la nuit et le jour ; 

 EUe est m©me ^ tel point sa compagne fiddle, 

 Que I'amour a la fin ne peut vivre sans elle. 

 Or s'il en est aiusi, qui pourrait me blimer 

 Qu'ayant peur de souffrir je n'ose pas aimer ? 



This kind of cowardice, however, lasts a very short 

 time, and the father's advice to his child, in George 

 Eliot's poem, comes much nearer to what we, most of 

 us, practise : 



' Where blooms, O my father, a thomless Rose ?' 



' That can I not tell thee, my child ; 

 Not one on the bosom of earth e'er grows 



But wounds whom its charms have beguiled.' 



' Would I'd a Rose on my bosom to lie ! 



But I shrink from the piercing thorn. 

 I long, but I dare not, its point defy ; 

 I long, and I gaze forlorn.' 



' Not so, my child — round the stem again 



Thy resolute fingers entwine ; 

 Forego not the joy for its sister — pain. 

 Let the Rose, the sweet Rose, be thine.' 



