Oh, were I from each hud that blows 
To choose meet type for beauty’s brows, 
I’d turn from lily and from rose 
To thee, sweet flower; 
For that thy leaves in springing close— 
Thy life’s an hour. 
Yes—whether singing to her lute. 
Or listening love’s beguiling suit, 
Or when enlivening harp and flute 
Invite the dance; 
Thou, frail one, eloquently mute, 
Shouldst woo her glance. 
For whilst upon her bosom white 
Thy leaves so perishingly bright 
Dropt one by one, perchance she might 
Bead beauty’s doom; 
And learn how e’en a breath may blight 
Youth’s opening bloom. 
Mrs. Hey. 
r 11 HE baby wept; 
And soothed its grief, and stilled its vain alarms. 
And baby slept. 
Again it weeps. 
And God doth take it from the mother’s arms — 
From present pain, and future unknown harms,— 
And baby sleeps. 
Hinds. 
