

















THE BOUQUET. 
SR a a ry se 
I envy every bird that flies 
Into the far and clouded West: 
I think of thee —I think of thee! 
O, dearest! hast thou thought of me. 
WILLIs. 






CLEMATIS, 
CLuEMatiIs VIRGINICA. — Virgin’s Bower. 



Mental Beauty, 
A LOFTIER gift is thine than she can give — 
That queen of beauty. She may mould the brow 
To perfectness, and give unto the form 
A beautiful proportion; she may stain 
The eye with a celestial blue —the cheek 
With carmine of the sunset; she may breathe 
Grace into every motion, like the play 
Of the least visible tissue of a cloud; 
She may give all that is within her own 
Bright cestus, — and one silent look of thine, 
Like stronger magic, will outcharm it all, 







Ay, for the soul is better than its frame, 
The spirit than its temple. What ?s the brow, 
Or the eye’s lustre, or the step of air, 
Or color, but the beautiful links that chain 




RT ip aa re Peay rp ee ee 

