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THE GARLAND.

Rhodoclea, I send you a garland of flowers,
The brightest yet dropped by the summer's bright hours;
My own hands wove in it the violet blue,
The rosebud, the wind-flower still wet with the dew,
The narcissus, the lily—that when they are tied
Around your dark locks, they may warn you of pride!
Like these fresh, sunny flow'rets, you now are in bloom,
But they fade—and you, also, must bow to their doom!

   Rufinus.

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