THE DYING BOY. 
155 
Sweet violets in the budding grove 
Peep where the glad waves run ; 
The wren below, the thrush above, 
Of bright to-morrow’s joy and love 
Sing to the sun. 
And where the rose-leaf, ever bold, 
Hears bees chant hymns to God, 
The breeze-bowed palm, moss’d o’er with gold, 
Smiles o’er the well in summer cold, 
And daisied sod. 
But thou, pale blossom, thou art come, 
And flowers in winter blow, 
To tell me that the worm makes room 
For me, her brother, in the tomb. 
And thinks me slow. 
For as the rainbow of the dawn 
Foretells an eve of tears, 
A sunbeam on the sadden’d lawn 
I smile, and weep to be withdrawn 
In early years. 
