LILAC, WHITE.A Sigh. 
MYRRHA. 
Oh ! with a delicate art, how quaintly taught, 
Sweetly around thy lattice thou hast wrought, 
In many a mazy twine, 
The forest vine. 
Its sweets requite thee, and as summer comes, 
It yields thee precious odors and gay blooms, 
And, folded in thy breast, 
Its birds are blest. 
Am I less worthy of thy care this hour, 
Than the frail blossom of thy summer bower— 
Of humbler claim to share 
Thy smile, thy care? 
Why hast thou taught my feelings then to twine 
Thus hopeful round thee like that summer vine, 
If still denied like rest 
Upon thy breast ? 
W. Gilmore Simms. 
