16 
^noio&rop. 
No one is so accursed by fate, 
No one so utterly desolate, 
But some heart, though unknown, 
Responds unto his own; 
Responds, as if with unseen wings 
An angel touched its quivering strings, 
And whispers in its song, 
“Where hast thou stayed so long?” 
Longfellow. 
The star of Hope will beam in Sorrow’s night, 
And smile the phantoms of Despair to flight. 
Anon. 
“Why do you call the Snowdrop pale, 
Our first of flowerets bright ? 
For the Christmas Rose* came long before, 
So did the Aconite.” 
I know the yellow Acunite; 
I know the Christmas Rose: 
But neither one nqr other e’er>^ 
Within my garden grovs^ & 
They seem to me presumptuous things, 
That rudely hurry on, 
And struggle for the precedence 
A fairer flower hath won. 
When I was but a wee, wee thing, 
A young Snowdrop I nursed, 
And I loved it when they told me how 
It always blossomed first. <• 
I marked its tiny, trembling stem, 
And dainty little bell, 
