FLORA’S DIAL. 137 
(October 12. 
BOSE MUNDI. — You are Merry. 
lady! the clouds of sorrow and pain, 
Hare not made thy bright eyes wet; 
The bitter cup that we all must drain 
Has not touched thy sweet lips yet. 
Beauty looks forth from thy rounded cheek, 
like lore from a rose’s breast; 
Thy brow, like a snow-drop, pure and meek,— 
Thy voice, like a song at rest. 
H. J. H. 
(October IS. 
DEEP BED BOSE. — Shame. 
Sprinkle sweet blossoms o’er her 
low and quiet grave! 
She was aye a gentle flower, —« 
Do not let a willow bower 
O’er her ashes wave! 
Away from earth’s cold tempests, 
She’s joined the angel-band! 
No more she walks life’s desert moors,— 
She treads the distant, smiling shores, — 
The shores of the Spirit land._J. W. H. 
