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Sown by the wind, nursed by the shower,
O'er which Love has breathed a power and spell
The truth of whispering hope to tell.
Lightly the maiden's cheek has prest
The pillow of her dreaming rest,
Yet a crimson blush is over it spread
As her lover's lip had lighted its red.
Yes, sleep before her eyes has brought
The image of her waking thought,—

That one thought hidden from all the world,
Like the last sweet hue in the rose-bud curled.

The dew is yet on the grass and leaves,

The silver veil which the morning weaves.

To throw o'er the roses, those brides which the sun Must woo and win ere the day be done.

B

She braided back her beautiful hair

O'er a brow like Italian marble fair.

She is gone to the fields where the corn uprears Like an eastern army its golden spears.

The lark flew up as she passed along,

And poured from a cloud his sunny song;

And many bright insects were on wing,
Or lay on the blossoms glistening;

And with scarlet poppies around like a bower,
Found the maiden her mystic flower.

Now, gentle flower, I pray thee tell

If my lover loves me, and loves me well;
So may the fall of the morning dew
Keep the sun from fading thy tender blue.
Now I number the leaves for my lot,

He loves not, he loves me, he loves me not,
He loves me,-yes, thou last leaf, yes,
I'll pluck thee not, for that last sweet guess!
"He loves me," "YES," a dear voice sighed :-
And her lover stands by Margaret's side.

L. E. L.

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