30 IStormboDDfr. 
Of cdmfort no man speak: 
Let’s talk of graves, of worms, of epitaphs: 
Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes 
Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth. 
Let’s choose executors, and talk of wills; 
And yet not so—for what can we bequeath, 
Save our deposed bodies in the ground? 
Shakspeare. 
Wormwood. ...Absence. 
Wormwood is the bitterest of plants; and absence, 
according to La Fontaine, is the worst of evils. Those 
in whose anxious breasts the “flame divine” is burn¬ 
ing, will agree with the French author in his assertion. 
To be absent from one we love is to carry a vacant 
chamber in the heart, which naught else can fill. 
When thou shalt yield to memory’s power, 
And let her fondly lead thee o’er 
The scenes that thou hast past before, 
To absent friends and days gone by,— 
Then should these meet thy pensive eye, 
A true memento may they be 
Of one whose bosom owes to thee 
So many hours enjoyed in gladness, 
That else perhaps had passed in sadness, 
And many a golden dream of joy, 
Untarnished and without alloy. 
Oh, still my fervent prayer will be, 
“Heaven’s choicest blessings rest on thee.” 
Miss Gould. 
