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TO LILY.

NO WRITER ATTRIBUTED

BLUSH not! the rosy mantling blood disarms

Thy soft seductions of their pale sweet hue,

And - ere it vanish - thou canst not renew

The magic of thy face, when all its charms

Lurk there. At dawn the red sun's glory harms

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The crimson spell that lightly veils the blue

Of dreamy dawn; red disenchants thee too.

Then let no blush arise in swift alarms,

For what could ever dare to hurt thee, sweet?

One treads not on a daisy, and the shower

Falls softly on the snowdrop's drooping head,

Falls sadly in the autumn on the dead

And fluttering roses; naught could hurt the flower

That hath all flowers clustering round her feet.

O. W.

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