THOU shalt not see me blush,

Nor change my countenance for this arrest;
A heart unspotted is not easily daunted.—Shakspere.

The lopped tree in time may grow again,

Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower: The sorriest wight may find release of pain,

The driest soil suck in some moist'ning shower. Times go by turns, and chances change by course, From foul to fair, from better hap to worse.

A chance may win that by mischance was lost,
That net that holds no great, takes little fish;
In some things all, in all things none are crost;
Few all they need, but none have all they wish.
Unmingled joys here to no man befall;

Who least hath some, who most hath never all.
Southern.

Thus doth the ever changing course of things
Run a perpetual circle, ever turning;
And that same day that highest glory brings,
Brings us unto the point of back returning.

Daniel.

Hear how Timotheus' various lays surprise,
And bid alternate passions fall and rise!
While at each change the son of Libyan Jove,
Now burns with glory, and then melts with love.

Youth

Pope.

Knows nought of changes! Age hath traced them all, Expects, and can interpret them.

Isaac Comnenus.

Love bears within itself the very germ

Of change; and how should this be otherwise?
That violent things more quickly find a term,
Is shown through nature's whole analogies.

Byron.

The time has been, when no harsh sounds would fall
From lips that now may seem imbued with gall;
But now so callous grown, so chang'd since youth,
I've learn'd to think, and sternly speak the truth.
Byron.

God, veiled in clouded majesty, alone
Gives light to all; bids the great systems move,
And changing seasons in their turn advance,
Unmoved, unchanged Himself.

Somerville.

Ah me! what is there in earth's various range,
Which time and absence may not sadly change?

Sands.

"Oh! day by day," a tottering dotard cries, "Nature decays, and each attraction dies, Women no longer charm as once they charmed, And men no more with pristine strength are armed; The fruits have lost their flavour, and the sun Shines not so brightly as of yore he shone;

The flowers have shed their fragrance and their hue!Old man! old man! nothing has changed but you! Imitated from Mallet. Not in vain the distance beckons,

Forward, forward let us range;

Let the people spin for ever

Down the ringing groves of change.—Tennyson.

In bower and garden rich and rare,

There's many a cherish'd flower,
Whose beauty fades, whose fragrance flits

Within the flitting hour.

Not so the simple forest leaf,

Unprized, unnoticed, lying

The same through all its little life-
It changes but in dying.

Be such, and only such, my friends;
Once mine, and mine for ever;
And here's a hand to clasp in theirs,
That shall desert them never.
And thou be such, my gentle love,
Time, chance, the world defying;
And take, 't is all I have, a heart
That changes but in dying.

G. W. Doane.

How much of change there lies in little space!
How soon the spirits leave their youth behind;
The early green forsakes the bough, the flowers,
Nature's more fairy-like and fragile ones,
Droop on the way-side, and the later leaves
Have artifice and culture-so the heart:

How soon its soft spring hours take darker hues!
And hopes, that are like rainbows, melt in shade;
While the fair future, ah! how fair it seemed!
Grows actual and dark.

Miss Landon.

Weep not that the world changes-did it keep
A stable, changeless course, 't were cause to weep.

I ask not what changes
Have come o'er thy heart,

I seek not what chances
Have doomed us to part;

I know thou hast told me
To love thee no more,
And I still must obey
Where I once did adore.

Change is written on the tide,
On the forest's leafy pride;
On the streamlet glancing bright,
On the jewell'd crown of night;-
All, where'er the eye can rest,
Show it legibly imprest.

Bryant.

Hoffman.

J. H. Clinch.

Ah! if a fairy's magic might were mine,
I'd joy to change with each new wish of thine;
Nothing to all the world beside I'd be,
And everything thou lovest in turn to thee.
Mrs. Osgood.

Now bear me hence away,
I like not this close room, so small and dim;
Around the curtain'd bed are shadows grim,
Which gauntly play,

Turning my mind from pray'r,.
I know they tell me of my coming fate,
But oh! not here-I would the change await

In the cool air.

George F. Wood.

CHARGE.

HE who requires

From us no other service than to keep
This one, this easy charge, of all the trees
In Paradise that bear delicious fruit

So various, not to taste this only tree

Of knowledge, planted by the tree of life.-Milton.

When often urged, unwilling to be great,
Your country calls you from your loved retreat,
And sends to senates charged with commom care,
Which none more shuns, and none can better bear.

Dryden.

No more accuse thy pen, but charge the crime
On native sloth, and negligence of time.

Dryden.

Perverse mankind! whose wills, created free,
Charge all their woes on absolute decree;
All to the dooming gods their guilt translate,
And follies are miscalled the crimes of fate.-Pope.

A hard division, when the harmless sheep
Must leave their lambs to hungry wolves in charge.
Fairfax.
They should beware, who charges lay in love,
On solid grounds they make them, for there are hearts
So proudly fond, that, wring them hard, they 'll break
Or ever they will stoop to right themselves.
Sheridan Knowles.

CHARITY.

SHE was a woman in her freshest age, Of wondrous beauty, and of bountie rare, With goodly grace and comely personage, That was on earth not easy to compare; Full of great love, but Cupid's wanton snare As hell she hated, chaste in work and will; Her neck and breasts were ever open bare, That aye thereof her babes might suck their fill; The rest was all in yellow robes arraied still.

A multitude of babes about her hung,

Playing their sports, that joy'd her to behold, Whom still she fed, whilst they were weak and young, But thrust them forth still, as they waxed old: And on her head she wore a tire of gold, Adorned with gemmes and owches wondrous fair, Whose passing price uneath was to be told; And by her side there sate a gentle pair Of turtle doves, she sitting in an ivory chaire.

Spenser.

Peace, peace, for shame, if not for charity!—
-Urge neither charity nor shame to me;
Uncharitably with me have you dealt.

He hath a tear for pity, and a hand
Open as day for melting charity.

By thee

Founded in reason, loyal, just, and pure,
Relations dear, and all the charities

Shakspere.

Shakspere.

Of father, son, and brother first were known.

Only add

Milton.

Deeds to thy knowledge answerable; add faith,
And virtue, patience, temperance; add love
By name to come called charity, the soul
Of all the rest.

Milton.

Nothing truly can be termed mine own
But what I make mine own by using well.
Those deeds of charity which we have done
Shall stay for ever with us: and that wealth
Which we have so bestowed, we only keep:
The other is not ours.
Middleton.

'Mongst all your virtues
I see not charity written, which some call
The first-born of religion; and I wonder
I cannot see it in yours. Believe it, sir,
There is no virtue can be sooner missed,
Or later welcomed; it begins the rest,
And sets them all in order.

Middleton.