the balm
That hung like incense o'er its dewy prime!

The lily's stateliness thou dost not own,
Nor glow voluptuous of the damask rose,
Thou canst not emulate the laurel's crown,
Nor, like the Cereus, watch while all repose.

And these gay rivals of parterre and field
May freely drink the sunshine and the dew,
But only unto thee does heaven yield
The pure reflection of her cloudless blue.

Thy tint will sometimes darken till it wear
A purple such as decked the eastern kings,
And yet, like innocence, all unaware
Its tribute to the wind thy blossom flings.

Symbol of what is cherished and untold,
Thy fragrance oft reveals thee to the sight,
Peering in beauty from the common mould,
As casual blessings the forlorn requite.

Thy image upon Laura's robe was wrought,
O'er which her poet with devotion mused,
And gentle souls, I ween, have ever caught
From thee a solace that the world refused.

The Tuscan flower-girls delight to cheer
Each pensive exile with thy scented leaves,
Fit largess of a clime to fancy dear,
Which a new blandishment from thee receives.

Grief's frenzy, when it melts, of thee will rave,
As of a thing too winsome to decay,
And thus Laertes at his sister's grave
Bids violets spring from her unsullied clay.

Lowly incentive to celestial thought!
We ne'er with listless step can pass thee by,
For thou with tender embassies art fraught,
Like the fond beaming of a northern eye.

Hence thou art sacred to our human needs;
Laid on the maiden's white and throbbing breast
Thy delicate odor for the absent pleads,
And mourners strew thee where their idols rest.

In those wild hours when feeling chafed its bound,
And deepened more that utterance was denied,
In thee persuasive messengers I found
That reached the haven of love's wayward tide.

And I have borne thee to the couch of death
When naught remained to do but wait and pray,
And marked the sudden flush and quickened breath
That proved thee dear though all had passed away!

THEY MAY TELL OF A CLIME.

TO ---- ----.

BY CHARLES E. TRAIL.

They may tell of a clime more delightful than this,
The land of the orange, the myrtle and vine;
Where the roses blush red beneath Zephyr's warm kiss,
An