434 FLOWEES OP 



They linger still, perchance, by grove or stream, 



But Winter frowns, and gives them to the winds ; 



They are all wither'd ! " H. G. BELL. 



So adieu to the joys of the garden and its cultivated 

 gems our last days with the waning year must be 

 devoted entirely to the woods and hills, and the pro- 

 ductions of Nature in her wildest haunts. 



WITHERED FLOWERS AND LOST JOYS. 



Where are the flow'rs of Summer ? 



Where the hay 

 That scented ev'ry meadow ? 



Swept away ! 



Where are the hopes that brighten'd 



Fair as they ? 

 Where are the friends perpetual ? 



Gone away ! 



Where are the scented Violets 



And the May 

 Whose fragrance kindled pleasure ? 



Died away ! 



Where are the thoughts that rested 



In their play 

 On some ideal fancy ? 



Fled away ! 



Where are the blooming roses ? 



Dead heart, say 

 Where are life's cherish'd Roses ? 



Blown away ! 



Where the desires that floated 



Light and gay 

 Like coloured clouds of sunrise ? 



Borne away ! 



