232 aatiUr. 
0 many a summer’s morning glow 
Has lent the rose its ray, 
And many a winter’s drifting snow 
Has swept its bloom away; 
But she has kept the faithless pledge 
To this, her winter hour, 
And keeps it still, herself alone, 
And wasted like the flower. 
* 0. W. Holmes. 
My heart is with its early dream; 
It cannot turn away 
To seek again the joys of earth, 
And mingle with the gay. 
The dew-nursed flower that lifts its brow 
Beneath the shades of night, 
Must wither when the sunbeam sheds 
Its too resplendent light. 
My heart is with its early dream, 
And vainly love’s soft power 
Would seek to charm that heart anew, 
In some unguarded hour. 
I would not that some gentle one 
Should hear my frequent sigh; 
The deer that bears its death-wound, turns 
In loneliness to die. 
Mrs. Embury. 
