A BOUQUET. 
In Eastern land they talk in flowers, 
And they tell in a garland their loves and 
cares ; 
Each blossom that blooms in their garden bow- 
ers, 
On its leaves a mystic language bears. 
The rose is the sign of joy and love— 
Young blushing love in its earliest dawn; 
And the mildness that suits the gentle dove, 
From the myrtle’s snowy flower is drawn. 
Innocence shines in the lily’s bell, 
Pure as a heart in its native heaven; 
Fame’s bright star and glory’s swell 
By the glossy leaf of the bay are given. 
The silent, soft, and humble heart 
In the violet’s hidden sweetness breathes; 
And the tender soul that cannot part, ; 
A twine of evergreen fondly wreathes. 

