DIRGE OF FLOWERS. 
30 
But ere the day had died away, 
I saw no more the beauteous gem. 
Yet it had promis’d fair to view, 
For ’midst the storms its branches grew ; 
It was the earliest flower of spring, 
The first of all its blossoming; 
But now untimely nipt it lies, 
Its every promise lost for ever; 
And all the dew-drops from the skies 
May fall — but can revive it never. 
Thus have I seen a flower as fair, 
A floating parent’s only joy, 
Bud forth, when storms were beating there, 
And wither in a milder sky. 
She withered — but unlike the flower 
Which hears no more the voice of spring, 
And never decks again the bower, 
Which saw its early blossoming. 
For when on earth she fades and dies. 
She blooms afresh in Paradise ; 
A bud transplanted from our soil. 
To live beside those living streams, 
Which ever and for ever smile 
Beneath those uncreated beams. 
Whose blessed light and ceaseless ray. 
Make heaven’s eternal summer-day. 
