Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee,
The shooting stars attend thee,
And the elves also,
Whose little eyes glow

Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee.

Alack! there is more peril in thine eye
Then twenty of their swords.

September II.

Shakespeare

Herrick.

(Romeo and Juliet).

'Tis hers to pluck the amaranthine flower
Of faith, and round the sufferer's temples bind
Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower,
And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.
Wordsworth.

Down on your knees,

And thank Heaven fasting for a good man's love.

September 12.

Shakes 'eare

(As You Like It).

She doth tell me where to borrow
Comfort in the midst of sorrow;
Makes the desolatest place

In her presence be a grace.

George Wither.

O! what men dare do! what men may do!
What men daily do! not knowing what

They do.

September II.

September 12.

My soul itself Seemed suffused in her presence, bathed in light, As plants beneath the solemn, tender moon, Which gilds their life with beauty, as she mine. Westland Marston, LL. D.

I ask not for attire more gay-if such as I have got Suffice to make me fair to thee, for more I murmur not. Miss Blamire.

September 14.

Bring me a constant woman to her husband,
One that ne'er dream'd a joy beyond his pleasure,
And to that woman, when she has done most,
Yet will I add an honour-a great patience.

And she follows where he leads her,
Leaving all things for the stranger.

September 15.

'Tis not in fate to harm me

Longfellow

Song of Hiawatha).

While fate still leaves thy love to me; 'Tis not in joy to charm me,

Unless the joy be shared with thee.

Lovers live by love, as larks by leeks.

Moore.

Proverb.

September 14.

September 15.

Not only good and kind,

But strong and elevated was her mind;
A spirit that with noble pride
Could look superior down

On Fortune's smile or frown.

Thy gentle words are sweeter even

Lyttelton.

Than freedom long desired and long delayed.

September 17.

Shelley.

She talk'd, and I bless'd her dear tongue;
When she smiled it was pleasure too great;
I listen'd and cried when she sung-
Was nightingale ever so sweet?

By heaven! I do love, and it hath taught
Me to rhyme and to be melancholy.

Shakespeare

September 18.

Rowe.

(Love's Labour's Lost).

Tell her how each beauty of her mind and face
Was brighten'd by some sweet peculiar grace;
How eloquent in every look;

Through her expressive eyes her soul distinctly spoke.

The mind's the standard of man.

Lyttelton.

Watts.