64 THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.

Heaped in the hollows of the grove,
The withered leaves lie dead;
They rustle to the eddying gust,
And to the rabbit's tread.
The robin and the wren are flown,
And from the shrubs the jay,
And from the wood-top calls the crow,

Through all the gloomy day.

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers,
That lately sprung and stood
In brighter light and softer airs,
A beauteous sisterhood?
Alas! they all are in their graves;
The gentle race of flowers
Are lying in their lowly beds,

With the fair and good of ours.
The rain is falling where they lie;
But the cold November rain
Calls not, from out the gloomy earth,

The lovely ones again.

The wind-flower and the violet,

They perished long ago;

And the brier-rose and the orchis died

Amid the summer glow;

THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 65

But on the hill the golden-rod,

And the aster in the wood,

And the yellow sun-flower by the brook,
In autumn beauty stood,

Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven,
As falls the plague on men,

And the brightness of their smiles was gone, From upland, glade, and glen.

And now, when comes the calm, mild day,
As still such days will come,

To call the squirrel and the bee
From out their winter home;

When the sound of dropping nuts is heard,
Though all the trees are still,

And twinkle in the smoky light

The waters of the rill,

The south wind searches for the flowers

Whose fragrance late he bore,

And sighs to find them in the wood
And by the stream no more.

And then I think of one who in
Her youthful beauty died,

The fair, meek blossom, that grew up
And faded by my side;

66

THE ROOM OF THE HOUSEHOLD.

In the cold, moist earth we laid her,
When the forest cast the leaf;
And we wept, that one so lovely
Should have a life so brief:
Yet not unmeet it was, that one,
Like that young friend of ours,
So gentle and so beautiful,
Should perish with the flowers.

Che Koom of the Bousehold.

BY E. COOK.

THERE'S a room I love dearly- the sanctum of

bliss,

That holds all the comforts I least like to miss ; Where, like ants in a hillock, we run in and out; Where sticks grace the corners, and hats lie about; Where no idlers dare come to annoy or amuse With their "morning call" budget of scandalous

news;

'Tis the room of the household-the sacredly free; 'Tis the room of the household that's dearest to me!

THE ROOM OF THE HOUSEHOLD.

67

The romp may be fearlessly carried on there,
For no bijouterie rubbish solicits our care;
All things are as meet for the hand as the eye,
And patchwork and scribbling unheeded may lie;
Black Tom may be perched on the sofa or chairs,
He may stretch his sharp talons or scatter his
hairs;

Wet boots may 66 come in," and the ink-drop may

fall,

For the room of the household is "liberty hall."

There is something unpleasant in company days, When saloons are dressed out for Terpsichore's

maze;

When the graceful Mazourka and Weippert-led

band

Leave the plain country-dance people all at a

stand.

There's more mirth in the jig and the amateur's

strum,

When the parchment-spread battledoor serves as a drum;

When Apollo and Momus together unite,

Till the household room rings with our laughing delight.

68 THE ROOM OF THE HOUSEHOLD.

Other rooms may be thickly and gorgeously stored
With your Titians, Murillos, Salvator, and Claude,
But the Moreland and Wilkie that hang on the wall
Of the family parlour outvalue them all.

The gay ottomans, claiming such special regard,
Are exceedingly fine, but exceedingly hard;
They may serve for state purpose-but go, if you
please,

To the household room cushions for comfort and

ease.

And the book shelves-where tomes of all sizes are

spread,

Not placed to be looked at, but meant to be read; All defaced and bethumbed, and I would not be

Sworn

But some volumes, perchance the most precious, are

torn.

There's the library open, but if your heart yearns,
As all human hearts must, for the song of a Burns,
Or the tale of a Vicar, that ever rich gem,
You must go to the room of the household for them.

'Tis the shadiest place when the blazing sun flings His straight rays on the rose and the butterfly's wings;