




THE BOUQUET. 

BUTTER-CUP, 
RAaNuNcuULUS ACRIS. 
Wealth, 
Brieut flowering king-cups promise future 
wealth, 
And fairies now, no doubt, unseen, 
In silent revels sup ; 
With dewdrop bumpers toast their queen 
From crow-flower’s golden cup. 
CLARE. 
THouGH dark the heart that throbs beneath 
The cestus in despair ; 
What matters it? — the jewel-wreath 
Can hide the ruin there ? 
And, oh! though still my diamonds blaze 
Above a spirit lonely, 
The world — the heartless world will gaze 
And see my jewels only! 
Yes! I would have them deem me blest ; 
And wealth, at least, may be 
A glittering veil for broken rest, 
And endless misery ! OsGoop. 



