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73
THE FESTIVAL.
BY L. E. L.
It is a festal meeting,
For flask and fruit are there;
The wind, in its retreating,
Brings music through the air.
It is an hour for gladness,
So golden is the day,
If there are signs of sadness.
Their gloom is done away.
Tho' the past has many a token
That destruction has been here;
Tho' the column lieth broken,
And the ruined shrine be near;
The acanthus twines above them,
The wild flowers know their place;
And we only feel we love them
For their beauty and their grace.
