POETRY OF THE ROSE. 



103 



" Autumn flowers ! ye come to me 



As a voice might come 

 To the wave-toss'd manner 



From his mountain home : 

 Bringing all sweet summer sounds 



From the forests deep, 

 And the music low which makes his heart 



With a mournful joy to weep : 

 Ye come to me as the star-lit eves 

 To the exile lone, when his spirit grieves, 

 Kindling a thought with your tender light, 

 Which guides me on through the closing night. 



" Ye are spirits of the blest, 



Gentle, gentle flowers ! 

 Spirits of that sweet-voiced land, 



Missed in all our bowers : 

 They who pass'd like twilight gleams 



On a summer sea, 

 Leaving the wail of a billowy grief 

 For their heavenward minstrelsy : 

 O come ye not, with your music breath, 

 Beautiful ones, to wrest from death 

 This soul's dim germ, and plant it where 

 It may gather strength from a purer air ?" 



Softly shone the morning sun 



On a new-made grave ; 

 Slowly o'er a marblo fresh 



Did a willow wave ; 

 Faintly stole the southern breeze 



Through the dewy grass, 

 Scarcely stirring the tall blades 



As its wings did pass : 



