Flower-dc-Luce. 107 



flaming like a glory in the sun, droop the fair petals of 

 the flower-de-luce, here, as ever, haunting still 



' the sylvan streams, 



Playing on pipes of reed the artless ditties 

 That come to us as dreams.' 



No whisper of unrest can mar the quiet of this far 

 retreat. From distant meadows rise the softened 

 sounds of toil, fainter still the gentle murmur of the 

 streams. No louder voice is here than song of gold- 

 finch, sweet and low, the rustle of the restless sedge, 

 the sigh of summer breezes in the reeds. 



