167 
And tones came wildly rushing 
From the Hyacinth’s drooping bell, 
Like gentle streamlets gushing, 
Of other days to tell. 
Her mother’s voice was there, 
As it soothed her infant hours, 
And its notes so soft and clear, 
Breathed from her cherished flowers; 
Her sisters’ virtues blending, 
In many a mystic wreath; 
Their loveliness seemed lending 
To evening’s perfumed breath. 
Loved forms and precious faces, 
Which blessed her far off home, 
In all their pictured graces, 
At Memory’s call had come; 
