
The GHasted Flowers, 
(6) 
W. Bowen, M. D. 
\ HEN sycamores were throwing 
Their arms across the stream, | 
The cadence of whose flowing | 
Like a Naiad’s song might seem, 
A rosy child was playing— 
A child of face so fair, 
That she seemed a being straying 
From the brighter realms of aap. 
On her grassy couch reelining, 
By the streamlet’s margin green, 
waz A rose-bud wreath entwining 
| 
Her fair young neck was seen ; 
A SS SS SRS SEED 
And many bright-hued flowers, 
In field and wild-wood sought, 
Culled in their gladsome hours, 
That little child had brought. 
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