HERBS OF GRACE.

VI.

ROSEMARY.

Whenas on summer days I see
That sacred herb, the Rosemary,
The which, since once Our Lady threw
Upon its flow'rs her robe of blue,
Has never shown them white again,
But still in blue doth dress them--
_Then, oh, then_
_I think upon old friends and bless them._

And when beside my winter fire
I feel its fragrant leaves suspire,
Hung from my hearth-beam on a hook,
Or laid within a quiet book
There to awake dear ghosts of men
When pages ope that press them--
_Then, oh, then_
_I think upon old friends and bless them._

The gentle Rosemary, I wis,
Is Friendship's herb and Memory's.
Ah, ye whom this small herb of grace
Brings back, yet brings not face to face,
Yea, all who read these lines I pen,