28 
GARDENS, WREATHS, &c. 
The stream — her life’s pure course below, 
The sky — her trust divine. 
What of my Sister, tell, oh tell, 
Thou gentlest forest-child, 
Thou fairy-nun, meek violet-bell, 
So modest, sweet, and mild 1 — 
Think of my opening blossoms, when 
They first adorn the lea — 
The ring-dove in her leafy glen, 
Or hive-crowned honey-bee. 
What of my Brothers — first of him, 
Monastic ivy say, 
Who loves alike the cloister dim, 
And mould’ring turret gray 1 — 
Lo where with intellectual eye, 
In contemplation deep, 
He gazes on the starry sky, 
Through hours when others sleep. 
A graceful form sits by his side, 
Among whose ebon curls, 
Th’ unbidden tears too frequent glide 
From her dark eye like pearls. 
Too many tears that grief hath cost, 
Yet, mother of the dead, 
Thou mourn’st the parted, not the lost — 
Then raise thy drooping head. 
Woodbine! sweet woodbine! softly breathe, 
Last, though not loved the less — 
