
ve, 
OLY, 

THE BOUQUET. 

























MOSS. 
Muscvs, 
Maternal Love. 
NuMBER thy lamps of love, and tell me now 
How many canst thou relight at the stars, 
And blush not at their burning? One—only 
one — 
Lit while your pulses by one heart kept time, 
And fed with faithful fondness to your grave — 
(Though sometimes with a hand stretched back 
from heaven —) 
Steadfast through all things—near when most 
forgot — 
And, with its finger of unerring truth, 
Pointing the lost way in thy darkest hour — 
One lamp — thy mother’s love — amid the stars 
Shall lift its pure flame changeless, and before 
The throne of God burn through eternity — 
Holy —as it was lit and lent thee here. 



WILLIS. 
Erez yet her child has drawn its earliest breath, 
A mother’s love begins: it glows till death-- 
Lives before life — with death not dies — but seems 
The very substance of immortal dreams. 
ANONYMOUS. 

