50 THE DEAD. 
CINQUEFOIL. 
Potentilla, 
i^NGDAGE THE DEAD. 
Winds waft the breath of flowers 
To wanderers o'er the wave, 
But bear no message from the bowers 
Beyond the grave. 
Proud science scales the skies 
From star to star doth roam, 
But reacheth not the shore where lies 
The spirit's home. 
Impervious shadows hide 
This mystery of Heaven ; 
But where all knowledge is denied, 
To hope is given. 
Joim Malcomi 
The dead, the much-loved dead ! 
Who doth not yearn to know 
The secret of their dwelling-place, 
And to what land they go ? 
What heart but asks, with ceaseless tone, 
For some sure knowledge of its own ? - 
Ye are not dead to us ; 
But as bright stars unseen. 
We hold that ye are ever near. 
Though death intrude between, 
Like some thin cloud that veils from sight 
The countless spangles of the night. 
: 
