THE DYING BOY TO THE SLOE BLOSSOM. 



BT E. ELLIOTT. 



BEFORE thy leaves tliou com'st once more, 



White blossom of the sloe ! 

 Thy leaves will come as heretofore ; 

 But this poor heart, its troubles o'er, 

 Will then lie low. 



A month at least before thy time 



Thou com'st, pale flowej, to me ; 

 For well thou know'st the frosty rime 

 Will blast me ere my vernal prime, 

 No more to be. 



Why here in winter ? No storm lours 



O'er nature's silent shroud ! 

 But blithe larks meet the sunny showers, 

 High o'er the doom'd untimely flowers 

 In beauty bow'd. 

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