THE FLORAL ORACLE. 253 
“ But here at home, where we were born, 
Thou wilt find flowers just as true, 
Down-bending every Summer morn 
With freshness of New England dew. 
“ For Nature, ever kind to love, 
Hath granted them the same sweet tongue, 
Whether with German skies above, 
Or here our granite rocks among.” 
On Midsummer-eve, any girl who wishes to 
peep into futurity, goes backwards in a garden, 
and, without speaking a word, gathers a rose. 
She puts the tiotver away in a sheet of tvhite 
paper, and does not look at it again until Christ- 
mas-day, when it will be found as fresh as in 
June. If she then places it in her bosom, he 
that is to be her husband will come and take it 
out; but if, prompted by curiosity, she pries into 
the packet before the appointed time, the charm 
will be broken. 
“The moss-rose that, at fall of dew, 
Ere eve its duskier curtain drew, 
Was freshly gathered from its stem, 
She values as the ruby gem ; 
ind, guarded from the piercing air, 
With all an anxious lover’s care, 
She bids it, for her shepherd’s sake, 
Await the New Year’s frolic wake— 
When, faded, in its alter'd hue 
She reads the rustic is untrue ; 
But if its leaves the crimson paint, 
Iler sickening hopes no longer faint. 
The rose upon her bosom worn, 
She meets him at the peep of morn; 
And lo! her lips with kisses prest, 
He plucks it from her panting breast.” 
