A HAWTHORN STORY.

Pink and white in snowy shower, Shade and light and leaf and thorn, From the orchard gate the hawthorn bloom Through diamond lattices scented the room, When a child of the summer was born. Golden green and creaking swing— Boy and girl are playmates now. ‘Swing me higher—up to the sky!’ ‘Nay; then I should lose you,’ he made reply, Under the hawthorn bough. Oh, perfume sweet!—she pulled the branch; Flowers on her face fell tenderly; At the orchard gate, ‘Good-night, dear love!’ Light in the lattice and stars above, And ‘Take this bloom from me.’ Summer again, and a last good-bye, Fair head resting in sunset ray; Beyond the window and western glow Fancy flutters to long ago: ‘Bring me one hawthorn spray.’ Childhood’s blossom and last good-bye— ‘Ah! think of the dawn in the Fatherland!’ Earthly morning—by flower-strewn bed, Manhood’s tears from a drooping head Trickling on still cold hand. Oh! fragrance of the hawthorn tree, Where’er his lonely footsteps fly, Arise and waft her memory sweet; White blossoms whisper: ‘White souls meet Beyond the last good-bye!’