DEATH OP THE FLOWERS. 
The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the 
year, 
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows 
brown and sere. 
Heaped in the hollow of the grove, the withered leaves 
lie dead; 
They rustle to the eddying gust and to the rabbit’s 
tread. 
The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrub 
the jay, 
And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the 
gloomy day. 
Where are the flowers, the young fair flowers, that 
lately sprang and stood, 
In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sister¬ 
hood? 
Alas! they all are in their graves; the gentle race of 
flowers 
Are lying in their lonely beds, with the fair and good 
of ours. 
The rain is falling where they lie: but the cold No¬ 
vember rain 
Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones 
again. 
The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long 
ago, . 
And the wild-rose and the orchis died, amid the sum¬ 
mer glow; 
