Then showered down the buds of May. _Miller._ * * * * * With hope all pleases, nothing comes amiss. _Rogers._ * * * * * And Hawthorn’s early blooms appear, Like youthful hope upon life’s year. _Drayton._ * * * * * Gay was the love of paradise he drew And pictured in his fancy; he did dwell Upon it till it had a life; he threw A tint of heaven athwart it--who can tell The yearnings of his heart, the charm, the spell, That bound him to that vision? _Percival._ LOVE-LIES-BLEEDING.... _Deserted Love_. This beautiful emblem of love, wounded and bereaved by fate, is a species of Amaranthus. The flower is of a reddish-purple hue, which circumstance suggests its name. * * * * * A single rose is shedding Its lovely lustre meek and pale: It looks as planted by despair-- So white, so faint--the slightest gale Might whirl the leaves on high. _Byron._ * * * * * And on with many a step of pain, Our weary race is sadly run; And still, as on we plod our way, We find, as life’s gay dreams depart, To close our being’s troubled day, Naught left us but a broken heart. _Percival._ * * * * * Nor would I change my buried love For any heart of living mould, No--for I am a hero’s child-- I’ll hunt my quarry in the wild; And still my home this mansion make, Of all unheeded and unheeding, And cherish, for my warrior’s sake, The flower of Love-lies-bleeding. _Campbell._ * * * * * Upon her face there was the tint of grief, The settled shadow of an inward strife, And an unquiet drooping of the eye, As if its lid were charged with unshed tears. _Byron._ MYRTLE.... _Love_. The Myrtle has ever been consecrated to Venus. At Rome, the temple of the goddess was surrounded by a grove of Myrtles; and in Greece, she was adorned under the name of Myrtilla. It was observed by the ancients, that, wherever the Myrtle grew, it excluded all other plants. So love, wherever it is permitted to grow, excludes all other feelings. The ladies of modern Rome retain a strong affection for this plant, preferring its odour to that of the most fragrant essences. * * * * * Our love came as the early dew Comes unto drooping flowers; Dropping its first sweet freshness on Our life’s dull, lonely hours. _Mrs. R. S. Nichols._ * * * * *