Bring me thy flowers, dear Jessy! Ah! thy step,

Well do I see, hath not alone explored

The garden bowers, but freely visited

Our wilder haunts. This foam-like meadow-sweet
Is from the cool green shadowy river nook,

Where the stream chimes around th' old mossy stones
With sounds like childhood's laughter. Is that spot
Lovely as when our glad eyes hail'd it first?
Still doth the golden willow bend, and sweep
The clear brown wave with every passing wind?
And thro' the shallower waters, where they lie
Dimpling in light, do the vein'd pebbles gleam
Like bedded gems? And the white butterflies,
From shade to sun-streak are they glancing still

Among the poplar boughs ?

Jessy.

All, all is there

Which glad midsummer's wealthiest hours can bring;

All, save the soul of all, thy lightening smile!

Therefore I stood in sadness 'midst the leaves,

And caught an under-music of lament

In the stream's voice; but Nature waits thee still,

And for thy coming piles a fairy throne

Of richest moss.

Lilian.

Alas! it may not be !

My soul hath sent her farewell voicelessly,

To all these blessed haunts of song and thought;

Yet not the less I love to look on these,

Their dear memorials ;-strew them o'er my couch,

Till it grow like a forest bank in spring,
All flush'd with violets and anemones.

Ah! the pale brier rose! touch'd so tenderly,
As a pure ocean shell, with faintest red,
Melting away to pearliness!-I know

How its long light festoons o'erarching hung
From the grey rock, that rises alter-like,

With its high waving crown of mountain ash,
'Midst the lone grassy dell. And this rich bough

Of honey'd woodbine, tells me of the oak

Whose deep midsummer gloom sleeps heavily,

Shedding a verdurous twilight o'er the face

Of the glade's pool. Methinks I see it now;

I look up through the stirring of its leaves

Unto the intense blue crystal firmament.

The ring-dove's wing is flitting o'er my head,
Casting at times a silvery shadow down

Once more, my child! The dewy trembling light

Presaging tears, again is in thine eye.

O, hush, dear Lilian! turn thee to repose.

Lilian. Mother! I cannot. In my soul the

thoughts

Burn with too subtle and too swift a fire;

Importunately to my lips they throng,

And with their earthly kindred seek to blend
Ere the veil drop between. When I am gone-
(For I must go)-then the remember'd words
Wherein these wild imaginings flow forth,

Will to thy fond heart be as amulets

Held there with life and love. And weep not thus !

Mother! dear sister! kindest, gentlest ones!

Be comforted that now I weep no more

For the glad earth and all the golden light
Whence I depart,

No! God hath purified my spirit's eye,
And in the folds of this consummate rose
I read bright prophecies. I see not there,
Dimly and mournfully, the word "farewell"
On the rich petals traced : No-in soft veins
And characters of beauty, I can read-

"Look up, look heavenward !”

Blessed God of Love!

I thank thee for these gifts, the precious links
Whereby my spirit unto thee is drawn!

I thank thee that the loveliness of earth

Higher than earth can raise me! Are not these
But germs of things unperishing, that bloom

Beside th' immortal streams? Shall I not find

The lily of the field, the Saviour's flower,

In the serene and never-moaning air,

And the clear starry light of angel eyes,

A thousand-fold more glorious? Richer far
Will not the violet's dusky purple glow,

When it hath ne'er been press'd to broken hearts,

A record of lost love?

Mother.

My Lilian! thou

Surely in thy bright life hast little known

Of lost things or of changed!

Lilian.

Oh! little yet,

For thou hast been my shield! But had it been

My lot on this world's billows to be thrown

Without thy love-O mother! there are hearts
So perilously fashioned, that for them

God's touch alone hath gentleness enough

To waken, and not break, their thrilling strings !

We will not speak of this!

By what strange spell

Is it, that ever, when I gaze on flowers,