"I am weary," said the lady; "disarray m rest. But thou, Claudine, be near when I sle love thee well, wench, though I have not sh hitherto. Wear this carkanet for my sake; b it not, I charge thee, in the presence of Sir I Now read me my riddle once more, my maide her head sunk on the silken pillowladies sink most sweetly into their first slum!

"I ever sleep best," said Blanche, withered crone is seated by the hearth fire to tales of wizardry or goblins, till they are minut; beneath; my dreams, and I start up, tell my beads, an to go on, till I see that I am talking only toy death. embers or the fantastic forms shaped by the NCIS QUARLES the dark tapestry or darker ceiling."

"And I love," said Germonda, "to"

rest by tales of knights met in forests by with society who and conducted to enchanted halls, where they only are desailed by foul fiends, and do battle with ental resources; for and are, in fine, rewarded with the the general mart, like dame, for whom they have perilled all at home. Christian may hold precious for the safhoughts and Reflections. of soul."

juries done to yourself, and be more pleased to do

good than to receive good.

SONGS. National

Memoir by LADY FANSHAWE.

Sing aloud

Old songs, the precious music of the heart !
Feelings of the Tyrolese.-W. WORDSWORTH.

SORROW.

My tree was thick with shade: O blast! thine office do,

And strip the foliage off, to let the heavens shine Strung Pearls.—RUCKERT.

through.

Oh sacred sorrow! by whom souls are tried,
Sent not to punish mortals, but to guide;
If thou art mine (and who shall proudly dare
To tell his Maker, he has had a share !)
Still let me feel for what thy pangs are sent,
And be my guide, and not my punishment.

The Parish Register, Part III.-G. Crabbe.

SORROW mixed with every Joy.

Love has no gift so grateful as his wings:
How fair, how young, how soft soeʼer he seem,
Full from the fount of Joy's delicious springs
Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.
Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto I. Verse LXXXII.
LORD BYRON.

Alas! the breast that inly bleeds

Hath nought to dread from outward blow:

Who falls from all he knows of bliss,

Cares little into what abyss.

The Giaour, Line 1161.-LORD BYRON.

SORROW amongst Birds.

So in the fields,

When the destroyer has been out for prey,
The scatter'd lovers of the feather'd kind,
Seeking, when danger's past, to meet again,
Make moan, and call, by such degrees approach,
Till joining thus they bill, and spread their wings,
Murmuring love, and joy their fears are over.

The Orphan, Act. III. Scene I.-T. Otway.

SORROW and JOY.

Sorrow and joy are in their influence sure,
Long as the passion reigns the effects endure.

These are not ills; else would they never fall
On heaven's first favourites, and the best of men ;
The gods, in bounty, work up storms about us,
That give mankind occasion to exert

Their hidden strength, and throw out into practice
Virtues, which shun the day, and lie conceal'd
In the smooth seasons and the calms of life.
Cato, Act II. Scene IV.-ADDISON.

SOUL. The

The soul of man is larger than the sky,
Deeper than ocean-or the abysmal dark
Of the unfathom'd centre. Like that ark,
Which in its sacred hold uplifted high,
O'er the drown'd hills, the human family,
And stock reserved of every living kind,
So, in the compass of the single mind,
The seeds and pregnant forms in essence lie,
That make all worlds.

Sonnet on Shakspere.-HARTLEY COLERIDGE.

The health of the soul is as precarious as that of the body; for when we seem secure from passions, we are no less in danger of their infection, than we are of falling ill, when we appear to be well.

Maxims, CCCCIX.-ROCHEFOUCAULT.