i8 THE BOUQUET. 



They sought in life to gain. 

 There rests the dreaming poet now. 

 Who once had hop'd to deck his brow 

 With Fame's unfading lays ; 

 Now other minstrels win the race 

 And make the lost one's burial place 

 Echo with their proud lays. 

 And there the slave of traffic lies | 

 In vain the golden chances rise, 

 In vain the speculator's prize 

 Is offered in the mart : — no more 

 He has, as in life's scheming hour. 

 The Alchemist's once fabled power* 

 His crafty spirit sleeps the while 

 His brother toiler's of the day 

 Sweep by to bask in Fortune's smile 

 And bear her spoils away ! 



The dead, the quiet dead should rest 



Far from the busy haunts of life, 



Far from all care and toil unblest. 



Far from all noise and strife. 



In some sweet spot, where Nature sheds 



A smile serene and fair, 



We e'er should make their lowly bedja 



And lay the sleepers there, 



The smiling Sun or pensive Moon, 



Should be the oply lights that shine 



In such {^ scene ; the soothing tune 



Of wild- bird's song divine. 



Or murmuring waters gentle lay 



The only music tones that play 



Around the solemn shrine. 



