hered now about his brow the laurel fillets droop,
While Lachesis brews
For the poor old Muse
A portion of scalding soup.
Engrave this line, O friends of mine! over my broken heart:
"He hustled and strove, and fancied he throve, till his daughter
learned Delsarte."

BUTTERCUP, POPPY, FORGET-ME-NOT.

Buttercup, Poppy, Forget-me-not,--
These three bloomed in a garden spot;
And once, all merry with song and play,
A little one heard three voices say:
"Shine or shadow, summer or spring,
O thou child with the tangled hair
And laughing eyes, we three shall bring
Each an offering, passing fair!"
The little one did not understand;
But they bent and kissed the dimpled hand.

Buttercup gambolled all day long,
Sharing the little one's mirth and song;
Then, stealing along on misty gleams,
Poppy came, bringing the sweetest dreams,
Playing and dreaming, that was all,
Till once the sleeper would not awake;
Kissing the little face under the pall,
We thought of the words the third flower spake,
And we found, betimes, in a hallowed spot,
The solace and peace of Forget-me-not.

Buttercup shareth the joy of day,
Glinting with gold the hours of play;
Bringeth the Poppy sweet repose,
When the hands would fold and the eyes would close.
And after it all,--the play and the sleep
Of a little life,--what cometh then?
To the hearts that ache and the eyes that weep,
A wee flower bringeth God's peace again:
Each one serveth its tender lot,--
Buttercup, Poppy, Forget-me-not.

* * * * *

Transcriber's Notes:

A midi file of the music on the first page is available in the HTML edition
of this text.

Page ix, "Dic" changed to "Dick" (Lydia Dick)

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