LINES TO MISS M. H., JUNE, 1861.
MOSS roses to-day and white lilies too,
Violets which bloom in the woodlands so free;
The rarest exotics all fragrant with dew,
Which blush in the garden, on lawn, or on tree;
Exquisite buds from the orange in flower;
Search for the gems in Flora's rich bower,
And bring the choice plunder to me.
Violets which bloom in the woodlands so free;
The rarest exotics all fragrant with dew,
Which blush in the garden, on lawn, or on tree;
Exquisite buds from the orange in flower;
Search for the gems in Flora's rich bower,
And bring the choice plunder to me.
A garland I weave, for whom, didst thou say?
A bride—but her name to breathe I don't dare;
No; wait in the church by the altar to-day,
Her pastor the rite, the sweet name will declare;
The organ will peal, the prayer will be said,
Blessings invoked on her beautiful head,
When she shall be given away;—
A bride—but her name to breathe I don't dare;
No; wait in the church by the altar to-day,
Her pastor the rite, the sweet name will declare;
The organ will peal, the prayer will be said,
Blessings invoked on her beautiful head,
When she shall be given away;—
Away from her home, the luxuriant nest,
So lovingly reared amid views ever grand,
Where parents have fondled, and friends have carest,
By culture, by care, by joy, ever fanned;
Away from those streams, the purest that flow,
From founts of affection, to mortals below;
For pledged is her heart and her hand.
So lovingly reared amid views ever grand,
Where parents have fondled, and friends have carest,
By culture, by care, by joy, ever fanned;
Away from those streams, the purest that flow,
From founts of affection, to mortals below;
For pledged is her heart and her hand.
