THE EARLY FROST. 83 



My blessed sire, we bore his chair at early 

 summer morn, 



That he might sit among your bowers and see 

 your blossoms born ; 



While meek and placid smiles around his rev 

 erend features played, 



The language of that better land, where ye no 

 more shall fade. 



Shall I see you, once again, sweet flowers, 



when Spring returneth fair, 

 To strew her breathing incense upon the 



balmy air? 

 Will you lift tome your infant heads? For 



me with fragrance swell? 

 Alas ! why should I ask you thus, what is not 



yours to tell. 



I know, full well, before your buds shall hail 



the vernal sky, 

 That many a younger, brighter brow, beneath 



the clods must lie ; 

 And if my pillow should be there, still come 



in beauty free, 

 And show my little ones the love that you have 



borne to me. 



