2 \ 
THE BOUQUET. 
The artist must have won his power 
From source divine by some high spell, 
Or wander’d, in his dreaming hour, 
Where shapes of heaven-born beautv dwell 
J 
The tenant of this gorgeous room 
Is a fair female, in the bloom 
Of life’s rich Summer days : 
Oh sure if splendor’s dazzl’ing rays 
Have power the human heart to cheer 
We’ll find a fount of gladness here ! 
But mark ye now the lone one’s face, 
No sign of peace or joy you trace 
Within that mirror; — it reveals 
But the sa.d weariness she feels. 
The burning tint upon her cheek 
Doth not health’s rosy presence speak ; 
Tis but the hue that art bestows, 
The counterfeit of nature’s rose ; 
And the quick flashing of her eye 
Is not like joy’s celestial beam, 
But lightning in a stormy sky, 
Whose lurid and terrific gleam 
Shows the dark clouds that linger near 
And wakens thoughts of gloom and tear. 
All ye who seek to read the heart 
And learn the secrets hidden there, 
Watch well the eye—-deceptive part 
That never plays, but beameth pure 
If all be pure within — man may school 
His lying lip to smile by rule, 
Or his deceitful brow to wear 
The semblance of a joy not there, 
