90 
FLORAL POESY. 
Yes ! as we roamed, the sylvan earth seemed glowing 
With many a beauty, unremarked before : 
The soul was like a deep urn overflowing 
With thoughts, a treasured store ; 
The very flowers seemed born but to exhale, 
As breathed tfie west, their fragrance to the gale. 
Methinks, even yet I feel thy timid fingers 
With their bland pressure thrilling bliss to mine ; 
Methinks, yet on my cheek thy breathing lingers 
As—fondly leant to thine, 
I told, how life all pleasureless would be, 
Green palm-tree of life’s desert! wanting thee. 
Not yet, not yet had disappointment shrouded 
Youth’s summer calm with storms of wintry strife : 
The star of hope shone o’er our path unclouded. 
And fancy colored life 
With those elysian rainbow hues, which Truth 
Melts with his rod, when disenchanting youth. 
Yet should it cheer me, that nor woe hath shattered 
The ties that link our hearts, nor hate nor wrath ; 
And soon the day may dawn, when shall be scattered 
All shadows from our path, 
For ah ! with others wealth and mirth would be 
Less sweet, by far, than sorrow shared with thee ! 
Yes ! vainly, foolishly the vulgar reckon, 
That happiness resides in outward shows : 
Contentment from the lowliest cot may beckon 
True love to sweet repose : 
For genuine bliss can ne’er be far apart, 
When soul meets soul, and heart responds to heart. 
