GOSSIP WITH A BOUQUET OF SPUING FLOWERS. 
BY MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY. 
Speak— speak, sweet guests. Open your lips in words. 
Tis my delight to talk with you, and fain 
I’d have an answer. I’ve been long convinc’d 
You understand me,—though you do not choose 
To wear your bright thoughts on your finger-tips 
For all to sport with. 
Lily of the Vale, 
And you, meek Violet, with your eyes of blue, 
I call on you the first,—for well I know 
How prone our village maidens are, to hide 
Their clear good sense among the city folks, 
Unless well-urged and fortified to speak. 
O purple Pansy, friend of earliest years, 
You’re always welcome. Have you never heard 
From some old grandmother, in cushion’d chair 
Sitting at Autumn, of your ancestors, 
Who on the shelter’d margin of the Thames 
Flourish’d, more vigorous and more fair than you ? 
