





ANONYMOUS. 
Will you be that memorial dear 
Of those who are so far away, 
Whose absence wakes the frequent tear, 
Whose presence turns the night to day? 
Or will you be the passion-flower, 
That spreads its hallowed radianca round ; 
That to a temple turns the bower, 
And marks the place for holy ground ? 
Carnation! robed in virgin white, 
Seems like an angel on the earth, 
So pure, so spotless, and so bright, 
As though it claimed a heavenly birth ; 
Compare it with more mortal sights, 
It blooms a lady of degree, 
Such as were served by gallant knights 
In the fair fields of chivalry. 
The crimson stock, of ten weeks’ pride ; 
Ten weeks! it charms us all the year; 
Or primal rose, when eventide 
Bids its pale blossoms reappear ; 
Or June’s own rose—that sovereign flower ; 
Oh, that decides the floral strife ; 
What nymph that loves not royal power— 
That would not be a queen for life ? 
