1850-60.] MARY R. WHITTLESEY. 641 Till, in some careless hour, we come Upon a patch of sunny bloom, Deep in the forest's heart of gloom, And pause, in sudden, quick delight, To wonder how these blossoms bright So long have hidden from our sight. The woodman's ax let sunlight in, Where pale and scentless flowers did lean, With straggling tufts of moss between ; And lo ! this garden full of bloom, Where humming-birds and wild bees hum. Deep in the forest's heai't of gloom. There is no loss without its gain. And blessings lurk in all our pain, Or we have lived our life in vain. That seems a cruel hand to us, Which lays our joys low in the dust — ' We bow beneath it — for we must. But, in good time we come to know That hand let sunshine in below, Where lowly gifts, like flowers, might grow. Content, and sweet humility. And patient trust, and charity, The blossoms of adversity. Oh ! mourners ! weary of life's pain. Take heart ! thro' grief we joy attain — There is no loss without its gain. JULIETTE. Just fourteen, as slim and straight As the poplar by the gate ; Eyes as black, and bright, and fearless As some wild things, pretty, peeidess Juliette ! 41 Short, black hair, too straight to curl, Though it has a little twirl ; Pouting lips, and nose retrousse, She is no meek, simple Lucy — Juliette. Where she sits, she seems to me Like a wild bird, or a bee. Pausing in her flight a minute, Only freshly to begin it — Juliette. When she walks, no Indian queen Wears a prouder, stateher mien ; Stepping o'er the grass so lightly, With a tread both proud and sprightly, Juliette. In the glances of her eye, Proud, defiant, though so shy, Speaks a spirit, keen, sarcastic, Matching with that step elastic — Juliette Juliette, take care ! — take care ! — Men, of girls like you, beware ; Tho' you're young, and bright, and pretty, They'll not love you, if you're witty, Juliette. If you walk with such an air ; Red lips pouting, "I don't care ;" Bright eyes saying, " I'll not fear you, I'll not worship, nor revere you. Stupid men !" All unconscious, though you be, Of that dash of mockery. Every look and gesture show it. And some time I know you'll rue it, Juliette. Only fourteen, Juliette ! — Time to mend those sad ways yet ; Train those eyes to meek demurenesa : Gentle glances are most sure. Miss Juliette.
