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Fountains of tears.

We weep when we are born, Not when we die!

Dear Lord, though I be changed to senseless clay, And serve the Potter as he turn his wheel, I thank Thee for the gracious gift of tears!

A child of those tears.

And friends, dear friends,--when it shall be That this low breath is gone from me, And gone my bier ye come to weep, Let One, most loving of you all, Say, "Not a tear must o'er her fall; He giveth His beloved sleep."

Thank God for grace, Ye who weep only! If, as some have done, Ye grope tear-blinded in a desert place And touch but tombs,--look up! Those tears will run Soon in long rivers down the lifted face, And leave the vision clear for stars and sun.

So bright the tear in Beauty's eye, Love half regrets to kiss it dry.

Oh! too convincing--dangerously dear-- In woman's eye the unanswerable tear! That weapon of her weakness she can wield, To save, subdue--at once her spear and shield.

What gem hath dropp'd, and sparkles o'er his chain? The tear most sacred, shed for other's pain, That starts at once--bright pure--from Pity's mine, Already polish'd by the hand divine!

She was a good deal shock'd; not shock'd at tears, For women shed and use them at their liking; But there is something when man's eye appears Wet, still more disagreeable and striking.

There is a tear for all who die, A mourner o'er the humblest grave. - Lord Byron ,

A stoic of the woods,--a man without a tear.

For Beauty's tears are lovelier than her smile.

We look through gloom and storm-drift Beyond the years: The soul would have no rainbow Hard the eyes no tears.

Nothing dries sooner than a tear.

Words that weep, and tears that speak.

And the tear that is wiped with a little address, May be follow'd perhaps by a smile.

No radiant pearl, which crested Fortune wears, No gem that twinkling hangs from Beauty's wars. Not the bright stars which Night's blue arch adorn, Nor rising suns that gild the vernal morn, Shine with such lustre as the tear that flows Down Virtue's manly cheek for others' woes.

What precious drops are those, Which silently each other's track pursue, Bright as young diamonds in their faint dew?

Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan, Sorrow calls no time that's gone: Violets plucked the sweetest rain Makes not fresh nor grow again.