32 
THE BOUQUET. 
“ Of sweetness to the last—thus you 
“ Will still love on ’til death.” 
Thus spake, in pity’s tenderest strain, 
The wanderer—then resum’d again 
ller weary search. And now, in fear 
And grief, she pauses near 
A gloomy prison. In its cells 
Many a wretched inmate dwells. 
Shut out from peace and hope’s sweet ray, 
Shut out from honour’s flowery way, 
Shut out from every pleasant sight 
And sound that wakens deep delight 
In the free heart—from the blue sky, 
The balmy air, the Sun’s glad beams. 
The breathing flowers, the bounding streams, 
And all thy blessings. Liberty ! 
Oh, Crime, it is a fearful thing 
And fearful penalties must bring; 
For deepest woe and darkest shame. 
And blighted hopes and ruin’d name, 
And Earth’s contempt and Heaven’s wrath 
Must follow all who tread its path ! 
Why will not wayward mortals learn 
The fatal wiles of sin to spurn, 
When, in all records of the past, 
They read the truth, that, first or last, 
The guilty meet a wretched doom ? 
The good, the pure alqne cai> know 
The joys that in life’s pathway bloom, 
The Heaven that even here below 
Can fill the heart, and waken there 
All its diviper powers. 
