522 
E. ELLIOTT. 
When my mother’s harsh rejection 
Bids me cease my love to speak— 
Pledges of a true affection, 
When your gentle aid I seek— 
Then lay every voiceless token, 
Hope, and faith unchanged, are spoken, 
And by you my bosom grieves; 
Love himself among you stealeth, 
And his awful form coucealeth, 
Shut within your folding leaves. 
JMitrs fur % Jmt 
E. Elliott. 
LOWERS ! winter flowers—the child is dead. 
The mother cannot speak; 
Oh, softly couch his little head, 
Or Mary’s heart will break ! 
Amid those curls of flaxen hair 
This pale pink riband twine, 
And on the little bosom there 
Place this wan lock of mine. 
How like a form in cold white stone. 
The coffin'd infant lies ! 
Look, mother, on thy little one, 
And tears will fill thine eyes. 
