200 
I gaze on the scene with a shudder, and turn 
To the red-glowing hearth, where the bright faggots burn 
But I feel like a prisoner shut from the air, 
And wish — how I wish! that dear summer was here; 
I think of the glad birds, now far, far away, 
Which sung, oh, so sweetly! each quick-passing day; 
I think of the bees, and the butterflies, gone, 
And feel my heart sink, for I’m sad and alone; 
The sweet charm of sympathy, where shall I find, 
To soothe my dark spirit, and brighten my mind? 
My flowers are fading; the few that are left 
Look sad as myself, of their friends all bereft; 
But I ’ll bind up their beauties, and trim them with care 
Perhaps they may serve as a bouquet to w T ear; 
Here’s the White Chrysanthemum , Fidelity’s flower, 
Defies in its beauty the frost’s blighting power; 
While the Box-plant , so green, murmurs low as a breath 
From the lips of the dying, ‘ still constant in death; ’ 
And a Sweet Pea , I wonder ’t is blooming to-day, 
But it asks for ‘ a meeting,’ and I must obey; 
And here this fair Vine, which seems clinging for life, 
Just like the dependence expressed by a wife, 
