This page has been validated.
223
THE ROSE OF EDEN-DALE AND HER
HOTHOUSE FLOWERS.*[1]
They were so beautiful this morn—
The lily's graceful wand
Hung with small bells, as delicate
As from a fairy's hand.
The Indian rose, so softly red,
As if in coming here
It lost the radiance of the south,
And caught a shade of fear.
The white geranium vein'd with pink,
Like that within the shell
Where, on a bed of their own hues,
The pearls of ocean dwell.
But where is now the snowy white,
And where the tender red?
How heavy over each dry stalk,
Droops every languid head!
- ↑ See the Frontispiece.
