I feel my spirit humbled when you call
My love of home a virtue: 'tis the part
Yourself have play'd has fix'd me; for the
heart

Will anchor where its treasure is; and small
As is the love I bear you; 'tis my all-

The widow's mite, compared with your desert:
You and our quiet room, then, are the mart
Of all my thoughts; 'tis there they rise and
fall.

The parent bird that in its wanderings

He is bless'd in love alone,

Ibid.

Sir A. Hunt.

Of all passions in the world, love not only is the most tyrannical, and takes the deepest hold, but is also speediest in its transformation, and in its change of the scenery round us; nay, the scenery environing the heart. That love is the great sweetener of our existence-the active and stirring principle-the spring which sets everything in motion-the vivid awakener, exponent, and representation of all the finest, most delicate, and subtlest movements in our spiritual nature, who could deny? But it must differ in all minds; the tasteful can love but

LOVE.

with taste; the delicate with delicacy; the fervent and eager with high impellant strength, and burning completeness and abandonment. There is love which once aroused-called to the surface from its tender fountain, and boiling up from its placid depths, becomes like the torrent sweeping on in impetuosity, rising up against and surmounting with fury all the petty obstacles and small interruptions which envy and cautious policy, the coldness or worldliness of man, seek to interpose to it. Love is such a giant power that it seems to gather strength from obstruction, and at every difficulty rises to higher might. It is all dominant-all conquering; a great leveller which can bring down to its own universal line of equalization the proudest heights, and remove the stubbornest impediments. There is no hope of resisting it, for it outwatches watchsubmerges everything, acquiring strength as it proceeds; ever growing, nay, growing out of itself. Newton.

LOVE-Demands of.

Love requires not so much proofs, as expressions, of love. Love demands little else than the power to feel and to requite love. Richter.

LOVE-Despair of.

It were all one, That I should love a bright partic'lar star, And think to wed it, he is so above me: In his bright radiance and collateral light Must I be comforted, not in his sphere. Th' ambition in my love thus plagues itself: The hind, that would be mated by the lion, Must die for love. 'Twas pretty, though a plague, To see him ev'ry hour; to sit and draw His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls, In our heart's table; heart, too capable Of every line and trick of his sweet favour: But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancy Must sanctify his relics.

LOVE-Difficulties of.

Shakspeare.

LOVE.

When late I saw thy favourite child,

I thought my jealous heart would break;
But when th' unconscious infant smiled,
I kiss'd it for its mother's sake.

I kiss'd it, and repress'd my sighs,
Its father in its face to see;
But then it had its mother's eyes,
And they were all to love and me.

Mary, adieu! I must away,

While thou art blest I'll not repine; But near thee I can never stay:

I

My heart would soon again be thine.

deem'd that time, I deem'd that pride, Had quench'd at length my boyish flame; Nor knew, till seated by thy side,

My heart. in all, save hope, the same.

Yet was I calm: I knew the time
My breast would thrill before thy look;
But now to tremble were a crime.
We met, and not a nerve was shook.
I saw thee gaze upon my face,

Yet meet with no confusion there;
One only feeling couldst thou trace,-
The sullen calmness of despair.

Love's heralds should be thoughts Which ten times faster glide than the sun's

beams,

Driving back shadows over low'ring hills: Therefore do nimble-pinion'd doves draw Love, And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings.

Shakspeare.

me,

Imagine that you see me, thin and pale, Strewing your path with flowers! Davenport.

LOVE-Filial.

So loving to my mother, That he might not beteem the winds of heaven Visit her face too roughly. Shakspeare.

And canst thou, mother, for a moment think That we, thy children, when old age shall shed

Its blanching honours on thy weary head, Could from our best of duties ever shrink? Sooner the sun from his high sphere should sink Than we, ungrateful, leave thee in that day, To pine in solitude thy life away, Or shun thee, tottering on the grave's cold brink.

Banish the thought! Where'er our steps may

roam,

O'er smiling plains, or wastes without a tree, Still will fond memory point our hearts to thee,

And paint the pleasures of thy peaceful home; While duty bids us all thy grief assuage, And smoothe the pillow of thy sinking age. Kirke White.

He praises love as if he were a lover;
Heaven, he says
In lavish bounty form'd the heart for love;
In love included all the finer seeds
Of honour, virtue, friendship, purest bliss.
Thomson.
LOVE-Hopefulness of.

Love can hope where reason would despair.
Lyttleton.
LOVE-Hour of.

Why does the evening, does the night, put warmer love in our hearts? Is it the nightly pressure of helplessness? or is it the exalting separation from the turmoils of life, that veiling of the world in which for the soul nothing then remains but souls ?-is it, therefore, that the letters in which the loved name stands written on our spirit, appear like phosphorous writing by night, on fire, while by day, in their cloudy traces, they but smoke!

Richter.

How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night,

Like softest music to attending ears.

LOVE-Ideality of.

He is in love with an ideal,

LOVE cannot be Forced.

I cannot love him;

Shakspeare.

A creature of his own imagination,
child of air, and echo of his heart;
And like a lily on a river floating,
She floats upon the river of his thoughts.

Longfellow

The loftiest aspirations of the soul;
Then, slowly spreading downward o'er the
slopes

Of intellectual intercourse, so flood
At length the very plains and vales of sense
With beauties of its sunshine; one by one
Kissing awake all spirit-buds and flowers,
To pour their fragrance forth in gratitude
Mary C. Hun
LOVE-Illicit.

The sacred lowe o' weel-placed love,
Luxuriantly indulge it,

But never tempt th' illicit rove,

Though naething should divulge it;
I waive the quantum o' the sin,
The hazard o' concealing;
But oh! it hardens a' within,
And petrifies the feeling!