"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 ! 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, The Parish Register, Part III.-G. Crabbe. SORROW mixed with every Joy. Love has no gift so grateful as his wings: 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 Orphan, Act. III. Scene I.-T. Otway. SORROW and JOY. Sorrow and joy are in their influence sure, These are not ills; else would they never fall Their hidden strength, and throw out into practice SOUL. The The soul of man is larger than the sky, 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. |