PRINCE'S PINE, OR BITTER WINTER-GREEN. 



HOPE IN SORROW. 



THE MOURNER'S APPEAL. 



Flowers, happy flowers ! methinks your tender eyes 



Look kindly on me in my deep distress ; 

 Dwells there no healing virtue in your sighs ? 



Have ye no balm the weary heart to bless ? 

 Can ye not give, from out your glowing hearts, 



A freshness like the joy of childhood's hours ? 

 Or must I sadly feel, as youth departs, 



Life's dial only once is wreathed with flowers ' 



Stars, holy stars ! pure watchers of the night ! 



Is there no beam that points the way to hope ' 

 Amid a world of so much gladsome light, 



Must I forever in thick darkness grope ? 

 Oh ! chase this vague wild horror from my thought. 



Let me but feel Heaven pities my deep woe ; 



