certain kind, now and then, whether pallida mors bring to us posthumous beatitude, brimstone or annihilation. And Ouida, I should insist (with deference to the coming scientific critic), has secured this terrene kind of immortality. I don't know whether or not she would rank it as a very precious boon. To judge from a good many passages in her abundant writing, I should be inclined to decide negatively.
LATENT.
WITHOUT the garden wall it grows,
A flowerless tree,
Wrung by the restless blast that blows
Across the sea:
Forgotten of the fickle Spring,
The scanty leaves droop, withering:
Scarce would it seem—poor, sapless thing!—
A rose to be!
Yet must the frail and faded spray
A rose remain,
Though bitter, blowing winds to-day
Its growth restrain.
Somewhere, however these deny,
The color and the fragrance lie;
Somewhere the perfect flower its dry
Dull stalks contain!
If in a kindlier soil perchance
The root should grow,
Where dews would fall, and sunbeams glance,
And soft airs flow,
Fair as the flower the garden shows
The leaf might spring, the bud unclose:—
From out the calyx of a rose
A rose will blow!
