218 
DIRGE OF FLOWERS. 
In whose cerulean hue 
Heaven’s own blest tint we view, 
On days serene and mild; 
How beauteous, like an azure gem, 
She droopeth from her graceful stem! 
The Foxglove’s purple bell, 
On bank and upland plain; 
The scarlet Pimpernel; 
And Daisy in the dell, 
That kindly blooms again 
When all her sisters of the spring 
On earth’s cold lap are withering. 
The bine-weed, pure and pale, 
That sues to all for aid ; 
And, when rude storms assail, 
Her snowy virgin veil 
Doth, like some timid maid, 
In conscious weakness most secure. 
Unscathed its sternest shocks endure. 
How fair her pendent wreath 
O’er bush and brake is twining! 
While meekly there beneath, 
’Mid fern and blossom’d heath, 
Her lowlier sisters shining, 
Tinged with the blended hues that streak 
A slumbering infant’s tender cheek. 
