BY KATE DASHWOOD.
A young white rose-bud—with its leavesJust blown apart, and wet with dew—
A fair child in a garland weaves
'Mid glowing flowers of every hue.
She sitteth by the rushing river,
While the soft and balmy air
Scarce stirs the starry flowers that quiver
Amid her sunny hair—
Thou of the laughing eyes! 'mid all
The roses of thy coronal—
Thou'rt fairest of the fair.
Ah, bright young dreamer! may thy heart
In its early freshness ever be
Pure as the leaves—just blown apart—
Of the rose thou'rt wreathing in childish glee.
Ah, well I know those flowers thou'rt twining
For thy fair pale mother dear—
For the love-light in those blue eyes shining
Is shadowed by a tear;
And thy thoughts are now in that dim, hushed room—
With the sad, sweet smile, and the fading bloom—
Thou'rt all too young to fear.