220 DIRGE OF FLOWERS. 



Alas ! they all are in their graves : 



The gentle race of flowers 

 Are lying in their lowly beds, 



With the fair and good of ours. 

 The rain is falling where they lie ; 



But the cold November rain 

 Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, 



The lovely ones again. 



The Wind-flower and the Violet, 



They perish'd long ago, 

 And the Wild-rose and the Orchis died 



Amid the summer glow ; 

 But on the hill the Golden-rod, 



And the Aster in the wood, 

 And the yellow Sun-flower by the brook 



In autumn beauty stood. 

 Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, 



As falls the plague on men, 

 And the brightness of their smile was gone 



From upland, glade, and glen. 



And now, when comes the calm, mild day, 



As still such days will come. 

 To call the squirrel and the bee 



From out their v/inter home, 

 When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, 



Though all the trees are still. 

 And twinkle in the smoky light 



The waters of the rill. 



