
THE BOUQUET. 

























. YEW. 
Taxus. 
Penitence. 
THE warmest sigh that pleasure heaves, 
Ts cold, is faint, to those that swell 
The heart where pure repentance grieves 
| O’er hours of pleasure loved too well! 
| Leave me to sigh o’er hours that lew 
More idly than the summer’s wind, 
And while they passed a fragrance threw 
| But left no trace of sweets behind. 
| 




Moore. 
WE will not ask what thorn has found 
Keen entrance to thy bosom fair ; 
If love hath dealt a deathless wound, 
Or deeper folly woke despair. 
We only say, the sinless clime 
On which is bent thy streaming eye, 
Hath pardon for the darkest crime, 
Though erring man the boon deny. 

y We only say, the prayerful breast, 
The crystal tear of contrite pain, 
Hath power to ope the portal blest, 
Where pride and pomp have toiled in vain. 
Token, for 1828. 


