Spare not the babe,
Whose dimpled smiles from fools exhaust their mercy;
Think it a bastard, whom the oracle
Hath doubtfully pronounced thy throat shall cut,
And mince it sans remorse.
Shakspeare.
Do not insult calamity;
It is a barbarous grossness to lay on
The weight of scorn, where heavy misery
Too much already weighs men’s fortunes down.
Daniel.
Oh, he’s accurst from all that’s good,
Who never knew Love’s healing power;
Such sinner on his sins must brood,
And wait alone his hour.
If stranger to earth’s beauty—human love,
There is no rest below, nor hope above.
Columbine.... Desertion.
Bring Lilies for a maiden’s grave,
Roses to deck the bride,
Tulips for all who love through life
In brave attire to ride:
Bring each for each, in bower and hall,
But cull the Columbine for all.
“The Columbine? full many a flower
Hath hues more clear and bright,
Although she doth in purple go,
In crimson, pink, and white.
Why, when so many fairer shine,
Why choose the homely Columbine?”
Examine well each floweret’s form,—
Read ye not something more
Than curl of petal—depth of tint?
Saw ye ne’er aught before
That claims a fancied semblance there.
Amid those modelled leaves so fair?