38 
THE BOUQUET. 
No more the Fairy spake—no more 
She mourn’d her lost; her search was o’er, 
But not her wanderings, for she stray’d 
Where many flowret’s bloom’d, and made 
Her home awhile with all. And still 
She roams Earth’s garden-bowers at will, 
And nestles in Spring’s opening Rose, 
Or flutters round the Tulip’s bell, 
Or creeps, at evening’s dewy close, 
Within the Lily’s fragrant cell, 
And slumbers there, and dreams away 
The Summer night in visions gay; 
And, when the morning smiles again, 
She leaves the bright-hue’d garden flowers 
And hies to lonely hill or plain 
To spend a few delicious hours 
Where the wild Honey-suckle’s fling 
Their balmy sweets on zephyr’s wing. 
When e’er a storm-cloud veils the sky 
Or threat’ning winds sweep rudely by 
She hastens to a safe retreat. 
The Violet’s shelter’d home, and there 
Receives a welcome sweet 
And rests ’til Heaven again is fair. 
And, mindful of her promis’d spell. 
She bids a mystic beauty dwell 
Round every home she gains. 
All ye who nurture flowers, and feel 
Their soothing influence o’er ve steal 
Witli a mysterious sway, be sure 
The wandering Fay hath sojourn’d there 
Amid your fragrant treasures, where 
Her clmrm e’en yet endures. 
