




too pure to f fling 
sser by; 
Who, with the star-flowers of thine eyea, 
Couldst brighten still the brightest lot, 
Or, with thy fond and fragrant sighs, 
Make rich the poor man’s cot !— 
An English Ruth,—in good or ill, 
To follow wheresoe’er we roam, 
And hang thy precious g garlands, still, 
Amid the breath of home! 






y weary heart! my wear: heart! 
It is a pleasant thing 
T’o wander from the crowd apart, 
When faint, and chill’ 
— fold thy restless wing, 
eside the sweet and quiet streams 
Ww apts grow Sk sli ly 7-bells,—~ 
us et —dwells— 
the gus hin; 
wT 
‘And utters m 
And love, beside 
Like some young N etude 


f the sues 
d been 
d, and cold thou w 



