FABLES OF FLORA. 
What magic spell had rapt each sense, 
And borne the poor girl’s heart away? 
It was a breath, she knew not whence, 
Of new-mown clover hay. 
To hide the cheeks her tears had burned, 
And still the throbbings of her brain, 
She toward a window slowly turned, 
And leaned against the pane. 
A little flower-pot, green and new, 
Upon the narrow sill was set, 
And, drooling o’er its border, grew 
A blooming Mignonette. 
Instant the gushing tears were dried, 
And o’er her pale and pensive face 
There stole a flush of holy pride, 
That mingled with its grace. 
For to her thoughts that fragrant flower 
Brought back her brother’s parting words 
‘ O, Alice! in thy homesick hour, 
When pining for the birds, 
‘ And for the mosses in the woods, 
And violets in the sunny dell, 
And all the dewy flowers and buds 
That we have loved so well; 
07 
T 
