* * * * *

LOVE.

Love reigns the lord of every mortal heart;
He wounds the beggar, wounds the king,
And is the fairest, falsest thing,
That e'er excited joy, or bade a bosom smart.
Light as the wind, rough as the wave,
He's both a tyrant and a slave;
A fire that freezes, and a frost that's hot,
A bitter sweet, a luscious sour,
Wretched is he who knows his pow'r,
But far more wretched still is he who knows it not.

* * * * *

TRUTH, A FABLE.

At the gates of Sorbonne, Truth one day showed her face. The syndic met
her. "What," said he, "do you want?" "Alas! hospitality." "Your name?"
"My name is Truth." "Flee," said he, in anger, "flee, or I seek vengeance
on your profaneness." "You chase me away," answered Truth; "but I live in
hope to have my turn, being the spoiled child of Time, and gaining every
thing by the means of my father."

* * * * *

The initial letters of the Latin names of the kings of Bonaparte's family