it would be a striking ornament for the 

 flower garden. 



Someone has said that the Black Co- 

 hosh "may truly be classed among those 

 objects which, from the standpoint of 



frail humanity, distance lends enchant- 

 ment." Though this be true, may we not 

 say with Wordsworth, 

 To me the meanest flower that blows can 



give 

 Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 



THE VEERIE. 



Darkness descends in shadowy folds 

 Over the distant hills; the breeze 

 Shivers and stirs in the leafy trees, 

 And a single star beholds. 



The brook murmurs low in the tangled copse, 

 The jewel-weed stands with its feet in the stream, 

 B}/ my lantern light the dew-drops gleam 

 On the leaves like diamond drops. 



And lo! like the shuddering wind-stirred leaves, 

 Like the trembling weed where the waters glide, 

 A voice from the depths where the wood-birds hide 

 Its thrilling melody weaves. 



What shakes the harp-strings in thy throat? 

 Is it joy or woe? Is it love or fear? 

 The mystery of the woods I hear 

 In the passion of your note. 



Do you cry, Woe! Woe! Do you cry, Rejoice! 

 Joy and sorrow no longer twain, 

 Hope and despair in one wild strain. 

 And the night has found a voice. 



—Isabella T. M. Blake. 



185 



