CONCLUDING PIECES. 
327 
Still buoyantly, above the billows’ might. 
Through the storm’s breath? 
Yes, link’d with such high thoughts, 
Flower, let thine image in my bosom lie ! 
Till something there of its own purity 
And peace be wrought. 
Something yet more divine 
Than the clear, pearly, virgin lustre shed 
Forth from thy breast upon the river’s bed, 
As from a shrine. 
THE SNOW-DROP’S CALL. 
MISS E. EMRA. 
Who else is coming?—There’s sunshine here ! 
Ye would strew the way for the infant year: 
The frost-winds blow on the barren hill. 
And icicles hang in the quarry still; 
But sunny, and shelter’d, and safe, are we. 
In the moss at the foot of the sycamore tree. 
Are ye not coming? the first birds sing; 
They call to her bowers the lingering Spring; 
And, afar to his home near the north pole-star, 
Old Winter is gone in his snow-clad car; 
And the storms are past, and the sky is clear, 
And we are alone, sweet sisters ! here. 
2 D 
