54 
But a storm-cloud uprising its pinion threw o’er it, 
And cruelly dashed every petal to earth; 
When, lo ! to the Heavens its pure spirit bore it, 
In a cloud of the perfume that hallowed its birth. 
Thus sternly the Angel of Death o’er us rushing, 
With a voice like the tempest, a frown like the 
cloud, 
Waved its wing o’er our flower, its bright petals 
crushing, 
To repose on the sward ’neath a gossamer shroud. 
But from its pure bosom a Spirit upspringing, 
Has fled with its perfume to bowers above, 
And there, where the harps of the seraphs are ringing, 
’T will bloom in the sunshine of Heavenly love. 
