iote’s token-flowers. 
But only in a mother’s breast 
Dwells such unselfish love. 
My thoughts to thee must ever turn, 
As in the years gone by, 
While to thy heart I shall be like 
A dream of memory ; 
Go, dearest one, may angel hosts 
Their vigil’s o’er thee keep— 
How can I breathe Love’s sad farewell, 
And yet forbear to weep 1 
* 
ALOE. —Aloe. 
\ Misplaced Devotion. 
Ah ! wo to those who quench the holy spark 
Of inspiration in their secret soul, 
Yielding their nature up to earth’s control, 
Until the mental sight grows dim and dark, 
And thought no longer seeks a lofty mark, 
No longer toils to reach a noble goal; 
While the heart drains life’s enervating bowl, 
