220 
DIRGE OF FLOWERS. 
Alas! they all are in their graves: 
The gentle race of flowers 
Are lying in their lowly beds, 
With the fair and good of ours. 
The rain is falling where they lie; 
But the cold November rain 
Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, 
The lovely ones again. 
The Wind-flower and the Violet, 
They perish’d long ago, 
And the Wild-rose and the Orchis died 
Amid the summer glow; 
But on the hill the Golden-rod, 
And the Aster in the wood, 
And the yellow Sun-flower by the brook 
In autumn beauty stood, 
Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven 
As falls the plague on men, 
And the brightness of their smile was gone 
From upland, glade, and glen. 
And now, when comes the calm, mild day, 
As still such days will come, 
To call the squirrel and the bee 
From out their winter home, 
When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, 
Though all the trees are still, 
And twinkle in the smoky light 
The waters of the rill, 
