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Juliet, too, in anxiously waiting for the silent arrival of her lover, exclaims, Oh! so light of foot Will ne'er wear out the everlasting flint; A lover may bestride the Gossamer That idles in the wanton summer air, And yet not fall—



"Rightly to spell," as Milton wishes, in Il Penseroso, "Of every herb that sips the dew," seems to be a resource for the sick at heart—for those who, from sorrow or disgust, may without affectation say

and whose wearied eyes and languid spirits find relief and repose amid the shades of vegetable nature.—