24 THE BOUQUET. 



The artist must have won his power 

 From source divine by some high spell. 

 Or wander'd, in his dreaming hour, 

 Where shapes of heaven-born beauty dwell. 



The tenant of this gorgeous room 

 Is a fair female, in the bloom 

 Of life's rich Summer days : 

 Oh sure if splendor's dazzl'ing rays 

 Have power the human heart to cheer 

 We'll find a fount of gladness here ! 

 But mark ye now the lone one's face, 

 'No sign of peace or joy you trace 

 Within that mirror ; — it reveals 

 But the sad weariness she feels. 

 The burning tint upon her cheek 

 Doth not health's rosy presence speak ; 

 'Tis but the hue that art bestows. 

 The counterfeit of nature's rose ; 

 And the quick flashing of her eye 

 Is not like joy's celestial beam, 

 But lightning in a stormy sky, 

 Whose lurid and terrific gleam 

 Shows the dark clouds that linger near 

 And wakens thoughts of gloom and tear. 

 All ye who seek to read the heart 

 And learn the secrets hidden there. 

 Watch well the eye— deceptive part 

 That never plays, but beameth pure 

 If all be pure within — man may school 

 His lying lip to smile by rule. 

 Or his deceitful brow to wear 

 The semblance of a joy not there, 



