&OSEMARY. 
71 
I’ll weave a melancholy song, 
And sweet the strain shall be and long,— 
The melody of death. 
Come, funeral flower ! who lovest to dwell 
With the pale corse in lonely tomb. 
And throw across the deepest gloom 
A sweet decaying smell. 
Come, press my lips, and lie with me, 
Beneath the lowly alder tree ; 
And we will sleep a pleasant sleep. 
And not a care shall dare intrude 
To break the marble solitude, 
So peaceful and so deep. 
And hark ! the wind god as he flies. 
Moans hollow in the forest trees. 
And sailing on the gusty breeze. 
Mysterious music dies. 
Sweet flower ! that requiem wild is mine. 
It warns me to the lowly shrine. 
The cold turf altar of the dead ; 
My grave shall be in yon lone spot, 
Where, as I lie, by all forgot, 
A dying fragrance thou wilt o’er my ashes 
shed. 
DIE HERZ BLUME. 
TOM HOOD. 
Tiiere grew a little flower once, 
That blossomed in a day, 
And some said it would ever bloom, 
And some ’twould fade away ; 
