But if I idly flit away,
  All my sunny summer day,
  Dancing round from flow’r to flow’r;
  What shall grace my winter bow’r? 
  No, I’ll not wander with the bee,
  So tempt me not, variety.

  But I will prune my myrtle tree,
  That in winter green will be,
  When other flow’rs are pale and dead: 
  Their color gone, their beauty fled,
  No, I’ll not wander with the bee;
  So away, variety.

  My myrtle then shall be my care,
  That’s green and fragrant all the year;
  I will not spend the fleeting hours
  Flitting round more fragrant flow’rs. 
  I’ll not wander with the bee,
  So begone, variety.

  This in youth should be our care,
  To improve for future years;
  For if we flit from toy to toy,
  Chasing the painted bubble, joy,
  No real substance shall we find
  To nourish or improve the mind. 
  Then I’ll not wander with the bee
  Since it leads to misery.

  And youth’s fair morn will vanish soon,
  And the bright sun grow dim at noon;
  Trials will rise along the way,
  To cloud the dreary winter day;
  Then I’ll not wander with the bee,
  So farewell, variety.

Henriette Clinton;

Or,

Reverses of Fortune.

At the foot of the Alleghany Mountains stands the flourishing village of Hollidaysburg.  On the banks of the blue Juniata, that winds on till it buries its waters in the rolling Susquehannah, stood the elegant mansion of Esquire Clinton, the village lawyer.  He had lost his young wife many years since, and Henriette, his only child, shared largely in the affection of her father.  Her every wish was gratified, and she was educated in the fashionable etiquette of the place.  She was the guiding star in the fashionable circle in which she moved, and a general favorite.

But there came a change.  The father was seized with sudden illness, and in a few short hours was no more.  The grief-stricken Henriette had watched with an agonized heart the progress of the disease, had attended to his wants, and supplied his necessities with her own hands.  A skillful physician had done all that medical aid could do, but nothing could avail.  The grim messenger lingered not, and the beautiful Henriette was left sole mistress of the splendid mansion.

But Frederic Clinton had made preparation for that event, and his lamp was trimmed and burning when the Master came.

Henriette, too, had given her heart to God, while the freshness of youth was yet upon it, and now he supported her in her hour of trial.  Her father was borne to the grave, with all the splendor of wealth, a long train of sympathizing friends following in the procession, and showing every attention to the bereaved orphan, who was the only mourner.

Henriette returned with an aching heart, to the home of her childhood, and seated herself in her father’s library, overwhelmed with grief.