TO LILY.

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

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.