






THE BOUQUET. 
ORANGE BLOSSOM, 
CITRUS AURANTIUM. 
Your purity equals your loveliness. 
How fair the orange-bloom will smile 
Amid that auburn braid! 
How soft will burn thy blush the while, 
Beneath the bridal shade! 
Thou ’rt young to wed! — that virgin flower, 
White as thine own pure brow, 
Just stolen from its dewy bower, 
Is not more fresh than thou. 
Thou ’rt young to wear the bridal bloom; 
Yet go! for in thy heart, 
A lovelier blossom lights the gloom 
That timid fears impart — 
The heaven-fed flower of purity — 
O, nurse the snow-drop still! 
And in its breath a charm shall be, 
To guard thee from all ill. 
Mrs. Oscoop. 


