MISCELLANEOUS, 95 \ 



TO THE HERB ROSEMARY.* 



Sweet scented flower ! who art wont to bloom 



On January's front severe, 



And o'er the wintry desert drear 

 To waft thy waste perfume ! 

 Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now, 

 And 1 will bind thee round my brow ; 



And as I twine the mournful wreath, 

 I'll weave a melancholy song, 

 And sweet the strain shall be and long, — - 



The melody of death. 



II. 



Come, funeral flower ! who lov'st to dwell 

 With the pale corse in lonely tomb, 

 And throw across the desert gloom 

 A sweet decaying smell. 



Come, press my lips, and lie with mo 



Beneath the lowly alder tree. 



And we will sleep a pleasant sleep, 



And not a care shall dare intrude, 



To break the marble solitude, 

 So peaceful, and so deep. 



III. 

 And hark ! the wind-god, as he flies, 

 ]\Ioans hollow in the forest-trees, 

 And sailing on the gusty breeze, 

 Mysterious music dies. 

 Sweet flower ! that requiem wild is mine, 

 It warms me to the lonely shrine, 



The cold turf altar of the dead ; 

 My grave shall be in yon lone spot, 

 Where as I lie, by all forgot, 

 A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed. 



* The Rosemary buds in January. It is the flower commonly put in 

 tlie coffins of the dead. 



