246 THE FOESY OF FLOWERS. 



A FLOWER FROM MOUNT VEKNON. 



Bright blossom! thou hast breathed the air 



Around our hero's tomb 

 What do the night-winds murmur there, 



When skies are wrapped in gloom? 

 A dirge above the sleeping one, 



Of giant heart and arm? 

 Above a race of glory run, 



Whose memory has a charm 

 To thrill young hearts, and lift them up 

 To thirst for glory's gilded cup? 



Sheds not the moon, in radiance there, 



A brighter, holier light? 

 Look not the stars with smiles more fair, 



From off the brow of night ? 

 Send not the dews, which bathe that steep, 



A fragrant incense round, 

 As they were sacred tears, to weep 



O'er fame that death has crowned? 

 Didst thou not bow thy head, bright gem 

 Of Nature's peerless diadem, 

 O'er him who sleeps in glory there, 

 Beneath a nation's grateful prayer? 



Mrt. L. F Smitk. 



