242 THE FOEST OF FLOWERS. 



They waved the wild flowers on the hill, 

 And pilfered from their balmy store, 



Caught freshness from the murmuring rill 

 And sighed along its reedy shore. 



But 't was not zephyrs fraught with balm, 

 Nor the rich bloom of evening skies, 



Which lent that scene its deathless charm, 

 A well-spring of sweet memories. 



It chanced that Love's wild wandering wing 

 A moment hovered near the earth, 



Touched of my heart some trembling string, 

 And called the hidden music forth. 



Earth hath not oh! hath heaven so sweet 

 A charm as that once only known, 



When first affection's accents greet 

 The ear that drinks their thrilling tone ? 



Alas! this pledge of early love 



Now emblem of its faded beam, 

 Seems the sole relic left to prove 



That all was not a blissful dream. 



Long years have passed, pale faded flower, 

 And life like thee hath lost its bloom; 



But still the memory of that hour 



Survives, like thine own faint perfume. 



Oh, early love, too fair thou art 



For earth too beautiful and pure 



Fast fade thy day-dreams from ^he heart, 

 But all thy waking woes endure. 



Mr*. Whitman. 



