THE ORCHID. 



No mortal blossom this, which feeds on air, 



Transcending in its lowliest estate 



All laws which other flowers obey await ; 



All tints of jewels, lines of gravers rare, 



All hues of plumage lavished on its wear, 



At home in palace of rich and great, 



In unknown peasants' meadows never late ; 



What is the spell this wondrous life doth bear ? 



Is it a prisoned soul, that helpless, mute, 



For some wrong deed which bore a bitter fruit 



Doth thus its seal of expiation win ? 



I think such royal prison house had been 



Reward, not punishment. Fate! Hear my suit! 



Give me a thousand years for every sin ! 



H. H. 



