TO THE CARDINAL FLOWER. 
Holds to tlie dying lips the cooling draught, 
And bids the noiseless fan soft breezes waft, — 
Hushes with gentle voice the infant’s moans. 
With ready ear attends the sufferer’s groans* 
Bends low her form above the frameless bed, 
And tells of Him whose blood for her was shed. — 
To picture true, the spirit-beauty there, — 
Her eyes on heaven, her parted lips in prayer, — 
Has never been to mortal limner given. 
But angels hung it on the walls of heaven. 
