THE MOST EXTENSIVE
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A blossom full of promise is life's joy,
That never comes to fruit. Hope, for a time,
Suns the young floweret in its gladsome light,
And it looks flourishing--a little while--
'T is pass'd, we know not whither, but 't is gone.
A sealed book, at whose contents we tremble.
A woman's fame is the tomb of her happiness.
Alas! the praise given to the ear
Ne'er was nor ne'er can be sincere.
Alas, we make a ladder of our thoughts, where angels step, but sleep ourselves at the foot; our high resolves look down upon our slumbering act.
And this is woman's fate: all her affections are called into life by winning flatteries, and then thrown back upon themselves to perish; and her heart, her trusting heart, filled with weak tenderness, is left to bleed or break!
Are we not like the actor of old times, who wore his mask so long his face took its likeness?
Do anything but love; or if thou lovest and art a woman, hide thy love from him whom thou dost worship; never let him know how dear he is; flit like a bird before him; lead him from tree to tree, from flower to flower; but be not won, or thou wilt, like that bird, when caught and caged, be left to pine neglected and perish in forgetfulness.
Down she bent her head upon an arm so white that tears seemed but the natural melting of its snow, touched by the flushed cheek's crimson.
Eyes that droop like summer flowers.
Few, save the poor, feel for the poor.
Had he not long read the heart's hushed secret in the soft, dark eye, lighted at his approach, and on the cheek, coloring all crimson at his lightest look?
Hope is love's happiness, but not its life.
Hopes and regrets are the sweetest links of existence.
How disappointment tracks the steps of hope.
How often, in this cold and bitter world, is the warm heart thrown back upon itself! Cold, careless, are we of another's grief; we wrap ourselves in sullen selfishness.
I can pass days
Stretch'd in the shade of those old cedar trees,
Watching the sunshine like a blessing fall,--
The breeze like music wandering o'er the boughs,
Each tree a natural harp,--each different leaf
A different note, blent in one vast thanksgiving.
I do love violets; they tell the history of woman's love.
I have no parting sigh to give,
So take my parting smile.
I never cast a flower away,
A gift of one who car'd for me;
A flower--a faded flower,
But it was done reluctantly.
I will look on the stars and look on thee, and read the page of thy destiny.
I would give worlds, could I believe
One-half that is profess'd me;
Affection! could I think it Thee,
When Flattery has caress'd me.
In our road through life we may happen to meet with a man casting a stone reverentially to enlarge the cairn of another which stone he has carried in his bosom to sling against that very other's head.
Music moves us, and we know not why; we feel the tears, but cannot trace their source. Is it the language of some other state, born of its memory? For what can wake the soul's strong instinct of another world, like music?
Music,--we love it for the buried hopes, the garnered memories, the tender feelings it can summon at a touch.
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