THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 203 
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BY D. M. MOIR. 
When thou at eventide art roaming 
Along the elm o’er-shadowed walk. 
Where fast the eddying stream is foaming 
Beneath its tiny cataract, — 
— Where I with thee was wont to talk — 
Think thou upon the days gone by 
And heave a sigh! 
When sails the moon above the mountains, 
And cloudless skies are purely blue, 
And sparkle in the light the fountains, 
And darker frowns the lovely yew, — 
Then be thou melancholy too. 
When musing on the hours I proved 
With thee, beloved! 
When wakes the dawn upon thy dwelling, 
And lingering shadows disappear, 
And soft the woodland songs are swelling, 
A choral anthem on thine ear, 
Tliink— for that hour to thought is dear, 
And then her flight remembrance brings 
To by-past things. 
