304 
DIRGE or FLOWERS. 
Yes, Fanny, I cannot regret thy clay, 
When T think where thy spirit has wing’d its 
way. 
So wither we all—so flourish and fall, 
Like the flowers and weeds that in church¬ 
yards wave; 
Our leaves we spread over comrades dead, 
And blossom and bloom with our root in 
the grave :— 
Springing from earth, into earth we are thrust. 
Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust! 
If death’s worst smart is to feel that we part 
From those whom we love and shall see no 
more, 
It softens his sting to know that we wing 
Our flight to the friends who have gone 
before. 
And the grave is a boon and a blessing to me, 
If it waft me, O Fanny, my daughter, to thee ! 
THE SPRING FLOWER. 
WEIR. 
A lovely flower, at morning hour, 
Bloom’d sweetly on its parent stem: 
