ORANGE BLOSSOM, 
Bridal Purity. 
To 
Florence! to distant lands thou’rt gone, 
A new-made bride thou art, 
And new-born hopes have risen upon 
Thy fresh and guileless heart. 
Gifted as few have been, or are, 
The varied world to range, 
New to that world, and new to care, 
How wilt thou bide the change ? 
I see thee now as in those days, 
Thy days of childhood flown, 
With all thy fond, beguiling ways, 
Thy sweet, peculiar tone! 
Oh! lightly was thy young heart swayed, 
By just a look—a word; 
And sportively thy fancies played 
About us like a bird; 
But thou art happy, and ’tis wrong 
To feed regrets and fear. 
Love, Joy and Hope to thee belong, 
Florence, my sister dear!' 
A. M. Wells. 
Oh! County Guy! the hour is nigh, 
The sun has left the lea, 
The orange-flower perfumes the bower, 
The breeze is on the sea; 
The lark his lay, who trilled all day, 
Sits hushed his partner by; 
Breeze, bird and flower—they know the hour, 
But where is County Guy ? 
Scott. 
