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128 
FLORAL POESY. 
There rapid fly, more heard than seen, 
’Mid orange-boughs of polished green, 
With glowing fruit, and flowers between 
Of purest white. 
THE ORANGE-BOUGH. 
MRS. HEMANS. 
Ou! bring me one sweet orange-bough, 
To fan my cheek, to coo] my brow ; 
One bough, with pearly blossoms dressed, 
And bind it, mother ! on my breast ! 
Go seek the grove along the shore, 
Whose odors I must breathe no more, 
The grove where every scented tree 
Thrills to the deep voice of the sea. 
Oh ! Love’s fond sighs, and fervent prayer, 
And wild farewell, are lingering there, 
Each leaf’s ight whisper hath a tone, 
My faint heart, even in death, would own. 
Then bear me thence one bough, to shed 
Life’s parting sweetness round my head, 
And bind it, mother! on my breast 
When I am laid in lonely rest. 

