FLORA’S DIAL. 87 
Suite 23. 
PASQTJE FLOWER. — I have no claims. 
I seem to myself an unsightly weed, 
Growing up in a bright parterre, 
Where the perfume of flowers is silently shed 
On the wings of the balmy air. 
The high trees are waving above, and around, 
Whose branches with happy notes ring, 
While ’neath them a shade for the weary is found, 
But I am a vain useless thing. 
Oh, why was I placed here ? No pleasure I yield; 
None look upon me with, delight; 
More fitting for me, were some wild, barren field, 
Than a garden so blooming and bright. 
Lowell Offering. (Y. M.) 
lime 24. 
HEMP. — Fate. 
Oh! far on Being’s shores, where dimly lower 
The mists of guilt before the sunniest light, 
I feel myself by some resistless power, 
Swiftly impelled, nor see my way aright. 
Groping, confused, I seek my destination, — 
May ne’er my feeble strength Sin’s forces aid; 
Nor be it mine to scatter desolation 
On aught that He, the Holy One hath made. 
Miss Larcom. 
