12 
THE BOUQUET. 
And pleas’d the happy and the proud, 
Or solaced sorrow’s child. 
As storm-clouds pass o’er summer skies, 
Dimming their gay and brilliant dies, 
So pass’d the gloomy shade of woe 
Across the Fairy’s radiant brow. 
The while she gazed, in mute despair, 
Around the dwelling once so fair; 
Awhile she mus’d; awhile she mourn’d 
Upon the wreck and ruin near her; 
But soon, like dawning light, return’d 
Hope’s gentle smile to cheer her. 
And she resolv’d, despite the pain 
Or peril such attempt might cost, 
To roam thro’ many a varied scene 
In search of the sweet flowers she’d lost. 
I hen, quick as thought, she plum’d her wing 
And, like a rosy cloud of even 
Floating upon the breath of Spring, 
Rose gracefully to the blue Heaven 
And soar’d away. Onward she flew. 
O’er hill and vale and streamlet blue. 
Nor paus’d until she spied afar, 
Soft gleaming thro’ the lucid air. 
The city’s towers and temples fair. 
With joy she hails the welcome sight 
And, wearied with her rapid flight, 
She gladly gains a lofty tower 
And folds the drooping wing, whose power 
Is for a season lost. With timid mein 
She looks upon the wildering scene 
That meets her eye below. 
