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’'Tis more gay, and more bright, than the 
# opening morn, 
Yes, all things must yield to my pretty moss 
rose. 
TO E.—WITH A WITHERED ROSE. 
e The rose you gave me, love, has lost 
The beauty of its blooming hour, .- | i 
8 But yet a fairy fragrance clings 
Around the ruined flower ; 
And so the smile you gave me, love, 
j Shone but an instant on my sight, Mul 
t And yet its memory remains | 
To thrill me with delight. it 
And now I give the rose again, 
; Content that memory’should be | 
The only thing to call me back 
To thought of love and thee. Wh 

A For lo, our lots are set apart, | i 
And mine is all too sad a way Wh] 
| To shadow with its cypress boughs hy 

The morning of thy May. 
Hewry B. Hirsr. Ha 
