18 DROPS FROM FLORA’S CUr. 
THE ORANGE BOUGH. ' 
MRS. HEMANS. 
Oh! bring me one sweet orange bough, 
To fan my cheek, to cool my brow; 
One bough, with pearly blossoms drest, 
And bind it, Mother! on my breast! 
Go, seek the grove along the shore, 
Whose odors I must breathe no more ; 
The grove, where every scented tree 
Thrills to the deep voice of the sea. 
Oh! Love’s fond sighs, and fervent prayer, 
And wild farewell, are lingering there; 
Each leaf’s light whisper hath a tone, 
My faint heart, even in death, would own. 
Then bear me thence one bough, to shed 
Life’s parting sweetness round my head; 
And bind it, Mother! on my breast, 
When 1 am laid in lonely rest. 
— The golden boast 
Of Portugal, and western India there, 
The ruddier orange, and the paler lime, 
Peep through their polished foliage at the storm, 
And seem to smile at what they need not fear. 
C'OWPER. 
