Ke, Ebi tel Onin, 
When my mother’s harsh rejection 
Bids me cease my love to speak— 
Pledges of a true affection, 
When your gentle aid I seek— 
Then by every voiceless token, 
Hope, and faith unchanged, are spoken, 
And by you my bosom grieves; 
Love himself among you stealeth, 
And his awful form concealeth, 
Shut within your folding leaves. 
Flowers tor the Benrt, 
Ei. Elliott. 
LOWERS ! winter flowers—the child is dead, 
The mother cannot speak; 
Oh, softly couch his little head, 
Or Mary’s heart will break ! 
Amid those curls of flaxen hair 
This pale pink.riband twine, 
And on the littie bosom there 
Place this wan lock of mine. 
How like a form in cold white stone, 
The coffin’d infant lies ! 
Look, mother, on thy little one, 
And tears will fill thine eyes. 

