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DIRGE Or FLOWERS. 
For this thro’ its leaves has the white rose 
burst, 
For this in the woods was the violet nurst, 
Though they smile in vain for what once was 
ours. 
They are love’s last gift—bring flowers, pale 
flowers. 
Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel in 
prayer, 
They are nature’s offTing—their place is 
there; 
They speak of hope to the fainting heart, 
With the voice of promise they come and part. 
They sleep in dust thro’ the wintry hours, 
Then break forth in glory,—bring flowers, 
bright flowers. 
AUTUMN FLOWERS. 
STRICKLAND. 
Flowers of the closing year ! 
Ye bloom amidst decay, 
And come like friends sincere, 
When wintry storms appear. 
And all have passed away 
That clothed gay spring’s luxuriant bowers. 
With garlands meet for sunny hours. 
