Witt) FLOWERS. 
17<i 
scented valley, more redolent of real sweetness 
than the perfume-laden halls of luxury V* 
“ I know a brook that all the livelong day 
Babbles the silence of a vale away, 
With gurgle, gurgle, for its ceaseless song ; 
Many a hermit flower is found along 
Its mossy banks—some deep secluded, where 
None knew their being, save the prying air. 
That is their faithless confident, and tells 
The fragrant sighs he heard within their cells. 
Some, less retired, bent vainly o'er the brook, 
For their sweet image in its mirror look; 
A broken reflex in the water-glass 
Is all they find—they gaze—they hope—alas! 
They die despairing, amorous of themselves!— 
Why still ye not the waters, sylphs and elves 1 
And let me, in my lonely musing walk, 
Hear a wild blossom to its beauty talk ? 
“ What would it say ?—delight and purity 
And music, surely would its language be 
To its sweet rival-self within* the stream— 
Alas ! this minds me of a long-fled dream f 
J. A. W ADE. 
A dream, doubtless, of vanished beauty—of a 
light that is quenched—of fragrance wasted 
upon the air! but let us on in our sweet quest, 
listing, as we go, to the words of the lately 
