88 October. 
O precious, precious moments ! 
Pale flowers, ye’re types of those ! 
The saddest, sweetest, dearest, 
Because, like those, the nearest 
To an eternal close. 
Pale flowers ! pale, perishing flowers ! 
I woo your gentle breath ; 
I leave the summer rose 
For younger, blither brows ;— 
Tell me of change and death ! 
_ Caroline Southey. 
WITHERING-WITHERING. 
Withering — withering — all are withering— 
All of Hope’s flowers that youth hath nursed, — 
Flowers of Love too early blossoming, 
Buds of Ambition too frail to burst! 
Faintly—faintly—O ! how faintly 
I feel life's pulses ebb and flow ; 
Yet, Sorrow, I know thou dealest daintily 
With one who should not wish to live moe. 
Nay ! why, young heart, thus timidly shrinking ? 
Why doth thy upward wing thus tire ? 
Why are thy pinions so droopingly sinking, 
When they should only waft thee higher ? 
Upward—upward let them be waving, 
Lifting the soul toward her place of birth ; 
There are guerdons there more worthy thy having, 
Far more than any these lures of the earth.— Hoffman. 
