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THE ELORAL ORACLE. 
“The maiden found her mystic flower. 
1 Now, gentle flower, I pray thee tell 
If my lover loves me, and loves me well; 
So may the fall of the morning dew 
Keep the sun from fading thy tender blue. 
Now I number the leaves for my lot: 
He loves not—he lovesune—he loves me not— 
He loves me—yes, thou last leaf, yes— 
I’ll pluck thee not for that last sweet guess 1 
He loves me.’ ‘ Yes !’ a dear voice sighed, 
And her lover stands by Margaret’s side.” 
James Lowell—as true a poet in thought and 
word as ever breathed—has not soared so high 
but that he could stoop to pluck a few terrestrial 
blossoms, and in these sweet fancies, sent with 
a pressed flower, finds pleasant pensdes in this 
pretty practice of divination :— 
“ This little flower from afar, 
Hath come from other lands to thine; 
For once its white and drooping star 
Could see its shadow in the Rhine. 
“ Perchance some fair haired German maid 
Hath plucked one from the self-same stalk, 
And numbered over, half afraid, 
Its petals in her evening walk. 
“ 1 He loves me, loves me not ?’ she cries; 
‘ He loves me more than earth or heaven!’ 
And then glad tears have tilled her eyes 
To find the number was uneven. 
“ And thou must count its petals well, 
Because it is a gift from me; 
And the last one of all shall tell 
Something I’ve often told to thee. 
