Part 9

Sister Sorrow! sit beside me, Or, if I must wander, guide me: Let me take thy hand in mine, Cold alike are mine and thine. Think not, Sorrow, that I hate thee,-- Think not I am frightened at thee,-- Thou art come for some good end; I will treat thee as a friend.

R. M. Milnes.

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And this is all I have left now, Silence and solitude and tears; The memory of a broken vow, My blighted hopes, my wasted years!

Anon.

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It may be that I shall forget my grief; It may be time has good in store for me; It may be that my heart will find relief From sources now unknown. Futurity May bear within its folds some hidden spring From which will issue blessed streams; and yet Whate’er of joy the coming year may bring, The past--the past--I never can forget.

Mrs. Hale.

* * * * *

Of comfort 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 burning, 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.

* * * * *

How can the glintin sun shine bright? How can the wimplin burnie glide? Or flowers adorn the ingle side? Or birdies deign The woods, and streams, and vales to chide? Eliza’s gane!

J. W. H.

* * * * *

If she be gone, the world, in my esteem, Is all bare walls; nothing remains in it But dust and feathers.

John Crown.

* * * * *

Thus absence dies, and dying proves No absence can subsist with loves That do partake of fair perfection; Since, in the darkest night, they may, By love’s quick motion, find a way To see each other in reflection.

Suckling.

VIOLET.... Modest Worth.

The Violet has always been a favourite theme of admiration among visitors of Parnassus. Its quiet beauty and love of retired spots have ever made it the emblem of true worth that shrinks from parade. It is one of the first children of spring, and awakens pleasing emotions in the breast of the lover of the beautiful, as he strolls through the meadows in the season of joy. Ion, the Greek name of this flower, is traced by some etymologists to Ia, the daughter of Midas, who was betrothed to Atys, and changed by Diana into a Violet, to hide her from Apollo.

* * * * *

A woman’s love, deep in the heart, Is like the Violet flower, That lifts its modest head apart In some sequestered bower.