PIMPERNEL. 
95 
PIMPERNEL. 
O. W. HOLMES. 
Some years ago, a dark-eyed maid 
Was sitting in the shade— 
There’s something brings her to my mind 
In that young dreaming maid— 
And in her hand she held a flower, 
A flower whose speaking hue 
Said, in the language of the heart, 
“ Believe the giver true.” 
And as she looked upon its leaves, 
The maiden made a vow 
To wear it when the bridal wreath 
Was woven for her brow. 
She watched the flower, as, day by day, 
The leaflets curled and died; 
But he who gave it never came 
To claim her for his bride. 
Oh, 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 that faithless pledge 
To this her Winter hour, 
And keeps it still, herself alone, 
And wasted like the flower. 
