THE DYING BOY. 165 



Sweet violets in the budding grove 



Peep where the glad waves run ; 

 The wren below, the thrush above, 

 Of bright to-morrow's joy and love 

 Sing to the sun. 



And where the rose-leaf, ever bold, 

 Hears bees chant hymns to God, 

 The breeze-bowed palm, moss'd o'er with gold, 

 Smiles o'er the well in summer cold, - 

 And daisied sod. 



But thou, pale blossom, thou art come, 



And flowers in winter blow, 

 To tell me that the worm makes room 

 For me, her brother, in the tomb, 

 And thinks me slow. 



For as the rainbow of the dawn 



Foretells an eve of tears, 

 A sunbeam on the sadden'd lawn 

 I smile, and weep to be withdrawn 

 In early years. 



