And Kate, the light butterfly Kate, ever gay. Will choose the first blossom that comes in her

way:

The cistus will please her a moment, and then Away will she flutter, and settle again.

But Julia for me, with her heart in her eyes,
The child of the summer, too warm to be wise:
Is the passion-flower near her, with tendrils close

curled,

She can smile whilst she suffers; 'tis hers for the world.

All are lovely, all blossom of heart and of mind;
All true to their natures, as Nature design'd;
To cheer and to solace, to strengthen, caress,
And with love that can die not to buoy and to
bless.

With gentleness might, and with weakness, what grace!

Revelations from Heaven in form and on face; Like the bow in the cloud, like the flower on the

sod,

They ascend and descend in my dreams as from

God.

THE DYING BOY TO THE SLOE
BLOSSOM.

BY E. ELLIOTT.

BEFORE thy leaves thou com'st once more,
White blossom of the sloe!

Thy leaves will come as heretofore;
But this poor heart, its troubles o'er,
Will then lie low.

A month at least before thy time
Thou com'st, pale flower, to me;
For well thou know'st the frosty rime
Will blast me ere my vernal prime,
No more to be.

Why here in winter? No storm lours
O'er nature's silent shroud!

But blithe larks meet the sunny showers,
High o'er the doom'd untimely flowers
In beauty bow'd.

Sweet violets in the budding grove
Peep where the glad waves run;
The wren below, the thrush above,
Of bright to-morrow's joy and love
Sing to the sun.

And where the rose-leaf, ever bold.

Hears bees chant hymns to God,

The breeze-bow'd palm, moss'd o'er with gold,
Smiles o'er the well in summer cold,
And dasied sod.

But thou, pale blossom, thou art come,
And flowers in winter blow,

To tell me that the worm makes room
For me, her brother, in the tomb,
And thinks me slow.

For as the rainbow of the dawn
Foretells an eve of tears,
A sunbeam on the sadden'd lawn
I smile, and weep to be withdrawn
In early years.

Thy leaves will come! but songful spring
Will see no leaf of mine;

Her bells will ring, her bridemaids sing,
When my young leaves are withering
Where no suns shine.

Oh, might I breathe morn's dewy breath
When June's sweet Sabbaths chime!
But, thine before my time, oh, death!
I go where no flow'r blossometh,

Before my time.