DIRGE OF FLOWERS. 219 



And there Vimiria* weaves 



Her light and feathery bowers, 

 'Mid russet-shaded leaves, 

 Where Robin sits and grieves 



Your hasting death, sweet flowers ! 

 He sings your requiem all the day, 

 A.nd mourns because ye pass away. 



THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 



BRYANT. 



The melancholy days are come. 



The saddest of the year. 

 Of wailing winds, and naked woods, 



And meadows brown and sere. 

 Heap'd in the hollows of the grove 



The wither'd leaves lie dead ; 

 They rustle to the eddying gust, 



And to the rabbit's tread. 

 The robin and the wren are flown. 



And from the shrub the jay ; 

 And from the wood -top calls the crow. 



Through all the gloomy day. 



Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers 



That lately sprung and stood 

 In brighter light and softer airs, — 



A beauteous sisterhood? 



* Traveller's joy. 



