







200 POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
With magic power, yet humble grace, 
Ye bid “fair memory’s” stream to flow, 
Reflecting, on its glassy face, 
Past times and scenes, and Winterslow.* 
How sweet was then the quiet hour, 
‘When the day melted in the west ; 
When earthly ties had lost their power, 
And earthly cares did not molest. 
Hark ! do my wandering senses mock ?— 
No !—they are sounds I know too well— 
The bleating of yon fleecy fiock, 
The tinkling of its silvery bell. 
And o’er the fading downs behold 
E’en Sarum’s noble spire arise! 
Pointing, through floating clouds of gold 
A glorious pathway to the skies. 
It is not so—the vision’s gone. 
I try to grasp the form I see. 
The spell is broken—I’m alone— 
That form was thine, my Emily. 
® A village near Salisbury. 
— Se 
