IS 
THE BOUQUET. 
There, gazing timidly around, 
The objects of her search she found ; 
And o’er them bendeth one whose brow 
Wears the high impress stamp’d by thought, 
Whose eye is kindled by the glow 
From the pure flame of genius caught. 
With looks that rapturous feelings tell 
He gazes on the flowers before him; 
They seem, like some magician’s spell, 
To bid enchantment hover o’er him. 
And mark, as oft aside he turns 
To trace his thoughts upon the page, 
With holier light his dark eye burns 
And loftier dreams his soul engage. 
Doth not the pale brow’d student find, 
In those fair, fragrant things, 
A hidden charm that wakes his mind 
To glorious imaginings ? 
He is an ardent worshipper 
At Nature’s sacred shrine, 
But kept, by adverse fortune, far 
From all her works divine, 
His spirit pines like prison’d bird, 
’Til wishes wild and vain are stirr’d 
Within his restless mind. 
He longs to be away, away, 
By lofty mount or verdant plain, 
And feel the breath of Heaven play 
Fresh o’er his fever’d brain; 
He longs to catch a living beam 
From Nature’s radiant eye 
To light his soul’s poetic dream 
With inspiration high ! 
