

























THE BOUQUET. 
PINK — RED. 
DIANTHUS RUBEUS. 
Woman’s Love. 
O, woman’s love! at times it may 
Seem cold or clouded, but it burns 
With true, undeviating ray, 
And never from its idol turns. 
Its sunshine is a smile —a frown 
The heavy cloud that weighs it down ; 
A tear its weapon is — beware 
Of woman’s tears — there ’s danger there! 
Its sweetest place on which to rest, 
A constant and confiding breast: 
Its life, to meet — its death, to part — 
Its sepulchre, a broken heart. CROLY. 
AND well the poet, at her shrine, 
May bend and worship while he woos; 
To him she is a thing divine, 
The inspiration of his line, 
His loved one, and his muse. 
If to his song the echo rings 
Of fame —’t is woman’s voice he hears ; 
If ever, from his lyre’s proud strings, 
Flow sounds like rush of angel-wings — 
°T is that she listens, while he sings, 
With blended smiles and tears. HALLECK. 


