GOSSIP WITH A BOUQUET OF SPRING FLOWERS. 91 
’Twas not the fond garrulity of age 
That made her laud the past,—without respect 
To verity,—for I remember well 
How beautiful they were,—and with what pride 
I us’d to pluck them, when my school was o’er, 
And love to place them, rich with breathing sweets 
Between my Bible leaves, and find them there, 
Month after month, laying their foreheads close 
To some undying hope. 
Bright Hyacinth 
I’m glad you’ve brought your little ones. How snug 
You wrap them in their hoods. But still I see 
Their merry eyes and their plump cheeks peep out. 
Ah ! here’s the baby in its blanket too : 
You’re a good mother sure. Don’t be in haste 
To take their mantels off. The morn is chill. 
I’d rather see them one by one come forth, 
Just when they please. A charming family ! 
And very happy you must doubtless be. 
In their sweet promise, and your matron care. 
Gay, graceful Tulip, did you learn in France 
Your taste for dress ? and how to hold your head 
So elegantly ? In the gale yestreen, 
That o’er the parterre swept with sudden force, 
I thought I saw you waltzing, and am sure 
Those steps were taught in Paris. Have a care, 
And do not be too exquisite with those 
You call the dowdy flowers, because, my dear. 
We live in a republic, where the strength 
Comes from beneath, and many a change occurs 
To lop the haughty, and to lift the low. 
