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Persimmon. 
BURY ME AMID NATURE’S BERAU.-’ 
TIES. 
Oh! make me a grave on the marge of that stream 
Where often in youth’s gladsome morning I 
strayed ; 
Where the song of the lark, at Aurora’s first beam, 
Awakes from their slumbers the flowers of the 
glade, — 
Near the wide-spreading hazel, where lambkins 
repose, 
Like snow-wreaths untouched by the sun’s melt- 
ing ray, 
Whose branches the nest of the linnet enclose, 
While the thrush sweetly sings from its dew- 
dropping spray. 
Where the hawthorn’s rich perfume is borne on the 
gale, 
And wild scattered flowerets yield sweets to the 
bee, 
How oft have I roved through that thyme-scented 
vale, 
My heart like the mountain-breeze buoyant and | 
free ! 
IsaABELLA GRAHAM. 











—_es ae 


