Remember, remember, thou silly one,
How fast will thy summer glide,
And wilt thou wither a virgin pale,

Or flourish a blooming bride?

"O the Rose is old, and thorny, and cold, And he lives on earth," said she; "But the Star is fair and he lives in the air, And he shall my bridegroom be."

But what if the stormy cloud should come,
And ruffle the silver sea?

Would he turn his eye from the distant sky,

To smile on a thing like thee?

O no, fair Lily, he will not send

One ray from his far-off throne;

The winds shall blow and the waves shall flow, And thou wilt be left alone.

There is not a leaf on the mountain top,
Nor a drop of evening dew,

Nor a golden sand on the sparkling shore,
Nor a pearl in the waters blue,

That he has not cheered with his fickle smile,

And warmed with his faithless beam,

And will he be true to a pallid flower,

That floats on the quiet stream?

68

THE STAR AND THE WATER-LILY.

Alas for the Lily! she would not heed,

But turned to the skies afar,

And bared her breast to the trembling ray
That shot from the rising star;

The cloud came over the darkened sky,

And over the waters wide:

She looked in vain through the beating rain,
And sank in the stormy tide.

SHE twirled the string of golden beads,
That round her neck was hung, -
My grandsire's gift; the good old man
Loved girls when he was young;
And, bending lightly o'er the cord,
And turning half away,

With something like a youthful sigh,
Thus spoke the maiden gray :

"Well, one may trail her silken robe, And bind her locks with pearls,

And one may wreathe the woodland rose Among her floating curls;

And one may tread the dewy grass,

And one the marble floor,

Nor half-hid bosom heave the less,

Nor broidered corset more!

"Some years ago, a dark-eyed girl
Was sitting in the shade,—
There's something brings her to my mind
In that young dreaming maid, -

And in her hand she held a flower,

A flower, whose speaking hue Said, in the language of the heart, 'Believe the giver true.'

"And, as she looked upon its leaves, The maiden made a vow

To wear it when the bridal wreath

Was woven for her brow;

She watched the flower, as, day by day,
The leaflets curled and died;

But he who gave it never came
To claim her for his bride.

"O many a summer's morning glow Has lent the rose its ray,

And many a winter's drifting snow

Has swept its bloom away;

But she has kept that faithless pledge
To this, her winter hour,

And keeps it still, herself alone,

And wasted like the flower."

Her pale lip quivered, and the light Gleamed in her moistening eyes;

I asked her how she liked the tints

In those Castilian skies?

"She thought them misty,—'t was perhaps Because she stood too near;"

She turned away, and as she turned,
I saw her wipe a tear.