DIRGE OP FLOWERS. 
1102 
Nor sigh with sick impatience, and wish the 
light away; 
Nor when ’tis gone, cry dolefully, “ would 
God that it were day ! ” 
And when their lives are over, they drop 
away to rest, 
Unconscious of the penal doom, on holy Na¬ 
ture’s breast; 
No pain have they in dying—no shrinking 
from decay— 
Oh ! could we but return to earth as easily as 
they ! 
THE FLOWER THAT FEELS NOT 
SPRING. 
MRS. REMANS. 
From the prisons dark of the circling bark 
The leaves of tenderest green are glancing. 
They gambol on high in the bright blue sky, 
Fondly with Spring’s young zephyrs dancing, 
While music, and joy, and jubilee gush 
From the lark and linnet, the blackbird and 
thrush. 
