THE BOUQUET. 

‘Worshipped at holy distance, and around 
Hallowed and meekly kissed the saintly ground; 
Love has robed thee with a glory, and arrayed 
Thy lineaments in beauty that dismayed — 
Oh! not dismayed — but awed like one above. 
Byron. 
By day or night, in weal or woe, 
That heart no longer free, 
Must bear the love it cannot show, 
And silent ache for thee. Byron. 
ALTHEA, 
ALTHEA FRUTEX. 
Consumed by Love. 
Tr is like 
The history of some fair southern clime: 
Hot fires are in the bosom of the earth, 
And the warmed soil puts forth its thousand 
flowers, 
Its fruits of gold—summer’s regality ; 
And sleep and odors float upon the air, 
Making it heavy with its own delight. 
At length the subterranean element 
Bursts from its secret solitude, and lays 


