IN yonder leafy bower

Maiden plucks a rose.

Loveliest little flower,

Thou my fate disclose!

If the lonely evening star,

Glimmering in the west,

On a living rosebud shine,

Hope may swell thy breast.

But if the golden sunset

See me pine and die,

Ruined art thou, lovely maid;-

Who can tell me why?

In that rosy bower

Cupid oft is seen;

Cunning little archer,

He can tell, I ween.

A. L. H.