DROPS FROM FLORA’S CBP, 
149 
No gentle hyacinth, thou can’st not grieve, 
When tilings so lovely worship in thy train — 
The sun, the wind, the wave — O, it were vain 
To sum the homage which thou dost receive. 
The sad and musing poetess you cheer— 
At sight of thee Memory’s electric wings 
Waft to her soul long, long forgotten things — 
Loved voices hushed in death she seems to hear. 
PERCIVAL. 
A hyacinth lifted its purple bell 
From the slender leaves around it; 
It curved its cup in a flowing swell, 
And a starry circle crowned it; 
The deep blue tinctui-e that robed it, seemed 
The gloomiest garb of sorrow, 
As if on its eyes no brightness beamed, 
And it never in clearer moments dreamed 
Of a fair, a calm to-morrow. 
