

LINES TO AN ORANGE-TREE, 




Thus, Lady, when life’s coming blight 
Has paled thy dimples’ vernal glow, 



And dimmed thine orbs of starry light, 


And flecked thy raven locks with snow; 





Shall love, like these sweet lingerers, seem 
Still lovelier for thy faded prime, 
And gild with softer, holier beam 
The waste of Beauty’s Autumn time! 




Hines 


TO AN CRANGE-TREE REOEIVED FROM THE WEST INDIES LATE IN 


AUTUMN, 
W. P. Patmer. 

ho thine Eden of the sea 
Hapless tree ! 


Where eternal Summer smiles 


On the green Caribbean isles, 


Borne to this ungenial clime 


In the scowling Autumn time, 


Poor forlorn one, be of cheer, 


Hope is here! 





