196 
FLORAL POESY. 
Killed by the frost, love, 
The flowers scattered lie ; 
Their brightness is lost. 
And neglected they die. 
The world it looks dreary, love. 
And thick falls the rain ; 
My heart it is weary, love. 
My head throbs with pain. 
My hopes thickly fail, love, 
Like the leaves from a tree, 
And I cannot recall 
Their beauty to me. 
With thy heart I am blest, love, 
So I’ll brave the chill rain ; 
And patiently rest, love, 
Till the sun shines again. 
And I hope when the Spring, love. 
Gives leaves to the tree, 
Some flowers it will bring, love, 
For you and for me. 
WITHERING—WITHERING. 
HOFFMAN. 
Withering— withering—all are withering— 
All of Hope’s flowers that youth hath nursed— 
Flowers of love too early blossoming ! 
Buds of ambition too frail to burst 
