A GRAYE AMONG THE FLOWERS. 
If I should, die wlierL skies are clear, • 
In the sweet SpEmG-time of tke year, — 
O, Mde me not, where lock and key 
Shall shnt the pleasant world from me; 
Bnt lay me where my narrow hed 
May with fresh sprouting turf he spread. 
From which the dew, and sun, and shower 
Shall bring to life the budding flower. 
And if in Summee’s glowing heat, 
This heart of mine shall cease to beat, — 
O, lay me where the tall grass waves. 
With bending flowers, o’er humble graves. 
I’d rather have my lowly bed, 
With late and early wild flowers spread. 
Than covered with the costliest stone 
That mourner’s tears e’er dropp’d upon. 
And if when Attttdot mourns her bowers. 
Despoiled of all her choicest flowers. 
My earthly pilgrimage shall close, — 
O, let my wasting form repose, 
Where must the slow procession pass. 
O’er dead leaves in the crisping grass. 
Which whisper, as the flowers decay, 
‘‘So all that lives must pass away.” 
( 43 ) 
