130 
DROrS FROM FLORA’S CUP. 
CHANGE. 
MISS L. E. LANDON. 
r 
Where are the flowers, the beautiful flowers, 
That haunted your homes and your hearts in the 
spring ? 
Where is the sunshine of earlier hours ? 
WTiere is the music the birds used to bring ? 
Where are the flowers ? — why, thousands are 
springing, 
And many fair strangers are sweet on the air; 
And the birds to the sunshine their welcome are 
singing — 
Look round on our valley, and then question 
Where ? 
Alas! my heart’s darkness! I own it is summer, 
Though little't is like what it once used to be: 
I have no welcome to give the new comer; 
Strangely the summer seems altered to me. 
’T is my spirits are wasted —my hopes that are 
weary; 
These made the gladness and beauty of yore : 
To the worn and the withered even sunshine is 
/ 
dreary; 
And the year has its spring, though our own is 
no more. 
— ‘ How often in our path 
Crossed by some being, whose bright spirit sheds 
A passing gladness o’er it: but whose course 
