

38 THE BOUQUET, 
But why, O why, on all thus squander 
The treasures one alone can prize? 
Why let the looks at random wander, 
Which beam from those deluding eyes? 
Those syren tones, so lightly spoken, 
Cause many a heart, I know, to thrill; 
But mine, and only mine, till broken, 
In every pulse must answer still. 
C. F. Horrman. 
DEW-PLANT. 
MESEMBRYANTHEMUM. 





Serenade. 
Stars of the summer night! 
Far in your azure deeps, 
Hide, hide your golden light; 
She sleeps! 
My lady sleeps! 
Sleeps! 
Moon of the summer night! 
Far down yon western steeps, 
Sink, sink in silver light, 
She sleeps! 
My lady sleeps! 
Sleeps! 













