THE LILY OF THE VALLEY. 
BY GEORGE CROLY. 
White bud, in meek beauty so dost lean 
Thy cloister’d cheek as pale as moonlight snow, 
Thou seem’st beneath thy huge, high leaf of green, 
An Eremite beneath his mountain’s brow. 
White bud ! thou’rt emblem of a lovelier thing, 
The broken spirit that its anguish bears 
To silent shades, and there sits offering 
To Heaven the holy fragrance of its tears. 
