18 Snofofcrop. 
That linger still around, tell tales 
Of garden and of bower. 
And so the Snowdrops may have dwelt 
In borders neat and trim, 
And gentle beings tended them, 
Though now all's drear and dim. 
The brave and beautiful have died, 
Not e’en a name is known:— 
Time hath laid low the stately house,— 
Ye cannot find a stone. 
But still there runneth brightly there 
The little sedgy stream 
Into the moat, that lieth still 
And shadowy as a dream. 
And still there groweth plenteously 
The fragile Snowdrop’s bell:— 
Oh, human pride! that thou wouldst list 
The tale these small things tell! 
Louisa A. Twamley. 
As Hope, with bowed head, silent stood, 
And on her golden anchor leant, 
Watching below the angry flood, 
While Winter, mid the dreariment 
Half-buried in the drifted snow, 
Lay sleeping on the frozen ground, 
Not heeding how the wind did blow, 
Bitter and bleak on all around: 
She gazed on Spring, who at her feet 
Was looking on the snow and sleet. 
Spring sighed, and through the driving gale 
Her warm breath caught the falling snow, 
