190 
FLORAL POESY. 
Let the loud trump his triumph tell ; 
But when you hear the passing hell, 
Then, lady, twine a wreath for me. 
And twine it of the cypress-tree. 
• 
Yes ! twine for me the cypress hough ; 
But, 0 Matilda, twine not now ! 
Stay till a few brief months are past, 
And 1 have looked and loved my last ! 
When villagers my shroud bestrew 
With pansies, rosemary, and rue,— 
Then, lady, weave a wreath for me. 
And weave it of the cypress-tree. 
THE CYPRESS-TREE. 
BLACKWOOD’S MAGAZINE. 
A slender tree upon a height in lonely beauty towers, 
So dark, as if it only drank the rushing thunder 
showers ; 
When birds were at their evening hymns, in thoughtful 
reverie, 
I’ve marked the shadows deep and long, from yonder 
cypress-tree. 
I’ve thought of oriental tombs, of silent cities, where 
In many a row the cypress stands, in token of despair; 
And thought, beneath the evening star, how many a 
maiden crept 
From life’s discordant scene, and o’er the tomb in 
silence wept. 
