INDIAN FEATHER, OR CARDINAL FLOWER. 



PRIDE. 



OFFERED LOVE. 



BY HENRY T. TUCKERMAN. 



In thy pride's harvest — ample though it be, 



Suffer a few of love's meek flowers to spring, 

 They will not hush its richly-waving sea, 



Nor o'er its golden sheaves a mildew fling : 

 Thou wert created for delights more fond 



Than self e'er knows, though with high graces crowned,- 

 The melting gaze, the soul-entrancing bond, 



The rosy dreams that mutual hope surround : 

 Deny it not ; those lips when silent, glow 



With a heart's wealth too boundless for decay, 

 And the soft beams that from those calm eyes flow, 



A mine of latent tenderness betray : 

 Why keep the fountain sealed when one is nigh, 

 To whom fate ever whispers — " drink or die." 



