113 
And we know how’t is woman’s proud practice too 
oft, 
To be pining in sorrow, she fain would conceal; 
To wear the glad smile, and to carry aloft 
The bright glow of triumph her heart cannot feel; 
With a jest to her bosom unshrinking she ’ll clasp 
A wreath of false flowers, concealing the asp ! 
We know they all feel; — even she who can throw 
No veil o’er the anguish that melts in a tear; 
But whose lighter emotions of joy and of woe, 
In the gem-woven mantle of April appear; 
Whose quick-fleeting griefs, bursting forth from her 
eyes, 
The next passing zephyr just kisses, — and dries! 
But this pool of Bethsaida, which blesses and heals, 
In some higher natures can seldom be stirred; 
And the heart that most keenly and tenderly feels, 
Is that from whose depths not a murmur is heard! 
8 
