THE TRANSPLANTED FLOWERS. 



Nay, hold, sweet Lady, thy cruel hand. 

 Oh sever not thus our kindred band, 

 And look not upon us with pitiless eye 

 As flowerets born but to blossom and die. 



Together we drank the morning dew, 

 And basked in the glances the sunbeams threw, 

 And together our sweets we were wont to fling 

 When zephyr swept by on his radiant wing. 



When the purple shadows of evening fell 

 'Twas sweet to murmur our low farewell, 

 And together, with fragrant sighs to close 

 Our perfumed blossoms in calm repose. 



But now, with none to respond our sigh, 

 In a foreign home we must droop and die, 

 The bonds of kindred we once have known, 

 And how can we live in the world alone 1 



