ROSE. 
107 
The warm with the earliest breatli of Spring, 
The sweet with the sweep of the west wind’s wing ; 
Let the green bough and the red leaf wave,— 
Plant the glad rose-tree upon my grave. 
Why should the mournful willow weep, 
O’er the quiet rest of the dreamless sleep ? 
Weep for life with its toil and care, 
Its crime to shun, and its sorrows to bear ; 
Let tears, and the signs of tears be shed 
Over the living, not over the dead. 
Plant not the cypress, nor yet the yew, 
Too heavy their shadow, too gloomy their hue. 
For one who is sleeping in faith and love, 
With a hope that is treasured in heaven above ; 
In a holy trust are my ashes laid, 
Cast ye no darkness, throw ye no shade. 
Plant the green sod with the crimson rose. 
Let my friends rejoice o’er my calm repose ; 
Let my memory be like the odors shed, 
My hope like the promise of early red ; 
Let strangers share in their breath and bloom. 
Plant ye the bright roses over my tomb. 
GATHER YE ROSE-BUDS. 
HERRICK. 
Gather ye rose-buds while ye may, 
Old time is still a-flying; 
And this same flower that smiles to-day, 
To-morrow will be dying. 
