Peerbold.
The friend
Who smiles when smoothing down the lonely couch,
And does kind deeds, which any one can do
Who has a feeling spirit,—such a friend
Heals with a searching balsam.
Percival.
Delightful is an evening’s cheerful chat
With pleasant friends, especially to one
Who has been long away. The minutes run
With speed that all the talkers marvel at.
So much to talk about—so much to tell—
So many sleeping memories to awaken—
The various fates that absent friends befell—
Whom time has spared, and whom the grave has taken;
The tear to shed for those who’ve passed away—
The sigh to breathe for those who’ve gone astray—
Our times of darkness, and our days of light—
Our purposes and plans for coming years—
Our heavenly hopes, our earthly human fears—
And lo! ’tis time to say, “Good-night, dear friends, good-night!”
Tuberose.... Dangerous Love.
The superb Tuberose is a native of the East Indies and South America, and was introduced into Europe in 1632. It has since spread all over the world. The flower is of a white colour, sometimes tinged with a blush of pink. Its perfume is delicious and powerful; but if you would enjoy it without danger, keep at some distance from the plant. If you come with the object of your affection to inhale its perfume by moonlight, when the nightingale is pouring forth its ravishing melody, these odours will add an inexpressible charm to your enjoyment; but, if, regardless of the precepts of moderation, you approach too near, this divine flower will then be but an enchantress who will pour a dangerous poison into your bosom. Thus the love which comes from above purifies and exalts; but that which springs from earth debases and proves the bane of imprudent youth.
Yes, Love is but a dangerous guest
For hearts as young as thine,
Where youth’s unshadowed joys should rest,
Life’s spring-time fancies shine.
Then, sweetest, leave the wildering dream,
Till Time has nerved thy heart
To brook the fitful cloud and gleam,
Which must in love have part.
The Tuberose, with her silvery light,
That in the gardens of Malay
Is called the mistress of the night,
So like a bride, scented and bright,
She comes out when the sun’s away.