But the trail of the serpent is over them all. Paradise and the Peri.  T. MOORE.

DEW.

           Dewdrops, Nature’s tears, which she
  Sheds in her own breast for the fair which die. 
  The sun insists on gladness; but at night,
  When he is gone, poor Nature loves to weep.
Festus:  Sc.  Water and Wood.  Midnight.  P.J.  BAILEY.

Dewdrops are the gems of morning,
But the tears of mournful eve!
Youth and Age.  S.T.  COLERIDGE.

The dews of the evening most carefully shun,—­
Those tears of the sky for the loss of the sun.
Advice to a Lady in Autumn.  EARL OF CHESTERFIELD.

  With coronet of fresh and fragrant flower;
  The same dew, which sometimes on the buds
  Was wont to swell, like round and orient pearls,
  Stood now within the pretty flow’rets’ eyes,
  Like tears that did their own disgrace bewail.
Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act iv.  Sc. 1.  SHAKESPEARE.

  I’ve seen the dewdrop clinging
    To the rose just newly born.
Mary of Argyle.  C. JEFFREYS.

   An host
  Innumerable as the stars of night,
  Or stars of morning, dewdrops, which the sun
  Impearls on every leaf and every flower.
Paradise Lost, Book V.  MILTON.

  The dewdrops in the breeze of morn. 
  Trembling and sparkling on the thorn.
A Collection of Mary F.  J. MONTGOMERY.

DISAPPOINTMENT.

  Hope tells a flattering tale,
    Delusive, vain, and hollow,
  Ah, let not Hope prevail,
    Lest disappointment follow.
The Universal Songster.  MISS WROTHER.

  As distant prospects please us, but when near
  We find but desert rocks and fleeting air.
The Dispensatory, Canto III.  SIR S. GARTH.

  We’re charmed with distant views of happiness,
  But near approaches make the prospect less.
Against Enjoyment.  T. YALDEN.

    The wretched are the faithful; ’t is their fate
  To have all feelings, save the one, decay,
    And every passion into one dilate.
Lament of Tasso.  LORD BYRON.

  Alas! the breast that inly bleeds
  Hath naught to dread from outward blow: 
  Who falls from all he knows of bliss
  Cares little into what abyss.
The Giaour.  LORD BYRON.

  Full little knowest thou that hast not tried,
  What hell it is in suing long to bide: 
  To lose good dayes, that might be better spent;
  To waste long nights in pensive discontent;
  To speed to-day, to be put back to-morrow;
  To feed on hope, to pine with feare and sorrow.
Mother Hubberd’s Tale.  E. SPENSER.

  A thousand years a poor man watched
    Before the gate of Paradise: 
  But while one little nap he snatched,
    It oped and shut.  Ah! was he wise?
Oriental Poetry:  Swift Opportunity.  W.R.  ALGER.