THE DYING BOY TO THE SLOE BLOSSOM. 
BY E, ELLIOTT. 
Before thy leaves thou com’st once more, 
White blossom of the sloe ! 
Thy leaves will come as heretofore; 
But this poor heart, its troubles o’er, 
Will then lie low. 
A month at least before thy time 
Thou com’st, pale flower, to me ; 
For well thou know’st the frosty rime 
Will blast me ere my vernal prime, 
No more to be. 
Why here in winter ? No storm lours 
O’er nature’s silent shroud ! 
But blithe larks meet the sunny showers, 
High o’er the doom’d untimely flowers 
In beauty bow’d. 
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