128 
FLORAL POESY. 
There rapid fly, more heard than seen, 
’Mid orange-boughs of polished green. 
With glowing fruit, and flowers between 
Of purest white. 
THE ORANGE-BOUGH. 
MRS. REMANS. 
Oh ! bring me one sweet orange-bough, 
To fan my cheek, to cool my brow ; 
One bough, with pearly blossoms dressed, 
And bind it, mother ! on my breast ! 
Go seek the grove along the shore, 
Whose odors I must breathe no more. 
The grove where every scented tree 
Thrills to the deep voice of the sea. 
Oh ! Love's fond sighs, and fervent prayer, 
And wild farewell, are lingering there, 
Each leaf’s light whisper hath a tone, 
My faint heart, even in death, would own. 
Then bear me thence one bough, to shed 
Life’s parting sweetness round my head. 
And bind it, mother! on my breast 
When I am laid in lonely rest. 
