THE BOUQUET. 
And loves all sinless and refined. 
Those flowers call back the blissful time 
When she was pure and fair as they, 
With form untouch’d, unstain’d by crime 
And spirit spotless as the day. 
Oh, bless the thoughts those Roses give, 
And bless the spells that in them live ! 
Once more the erring wanderer strays 
’Mid the lov’d haunts of early days, 
Pure, happy, innocent again 
And free from every darkening stain. 
Once more she wanders o’er the wild 
A gay and guileless village child, 
Hunting, in every lone retreat, 
For Snow-drop fair or Violet sweet. 
Once more, oh, bliss above all other, 
She kneels beside her sainted mother, 
And breathes the sweet and solemn prayers 
She learn’d in childhood’s happy hours. 
She feels her parent’s holy kiss. 
She hears her gentle blessing given. 
Oh ! can there be on a Earth a bliss 
More pure, or more allied to Heaven ? 
But all too dear the vision grows. 
Too great the burden of delight; 
The dreamer wakes to present woes, 
Awakes to feel the withering blight 
Of shame and error’s deepest stain 
Enfold her like the captive’s chain. 
But tears, such tears as long have been 
By those dark flashing eyes unshed. 
Now falling fast and free, proclaim 
That virtue’s seeds are not all dead. 
