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BY HENRY B. HIRST.
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There is a flower which haunts the banks of streams,
That blossoms only in the path of Spring,
Lovingly bending where the water gleams.
Its fragrant perfumes fill the azure air,
As, gazing always in the limpid brook,
It seems to watch the Naiades braid their hair,
Or sport, in naked beauty, caroling hymns