1,2 
THE PURPLE LILAC. 
Thus a musing minstrel stray’d 
By the summer ocean, 
Gazing on a lovely maid 
With a bard’s devotion. 
Yet his love he never spoke, 
Till now the silent spell he broke ; 
The hidden fire to flame did spring, 
Fann’d by the passing angel’s wing. 
“ I have loved thee well and long. 
With hope of heaven’s own waking; 
This is not a poet’s song, 
But a true heart speaking. 
I will love thee still untired!” 
He felt, he spoke like one inspired ; 
The words did from Truth’s fountain spring, 
Upwaken’d by the angel’s wing. 
Silence o’er the maiden fell, 
Her beauty lovelier making ; 
And by her blush she knew full well 
The dawn of love was breaking. 
It came like sunshine o’er his heart! 
He felt that they should never part; 
She spoke—and, oh ! the lovely thing 
Had felt the passing angel’s wing. 
S. Lover. 
