82 
Floral Poetry. 
“Peace —Peace! alas, there is no peace for me. 
It rests with thee, belov’d one, in the grave ! 
Yet, when I search the cells of Memory, 
Where silently the subterranean wave 
Of buried hope glides on, a thought of thee— 
Like sunshine on the hermit’s darkened cave— 
Steals gently o’er my spirit, whispering sweet 
Of realms beyond the tomb, where we shall meet! 
Our love—how did it spring ? In sooth it grew, 
Even as some rare exotic in a clime 
Unfriendly to its growth : yet rich in hue, 
Voluptuous in fragrance, as if Time 
Had been to it all sunlight and soft dew,— 
As if upon its freshness the cold rime 
Of death should never fall! How came it, then ? 
Even as the manna fell ’midst famished men, 
To be snatched up in transport! And we fed 
Upon affection’s banquet, that ne’er palled 
Upon the spirit’s palate! Friendship shed 
A light around our bosoms, which recalled 
The memory of that bard whose soul was wed— 
With love surpassing woman’s love, ungalled 
By selfish doubts—to him, the monarch’s son, 
Brave Jonathan ! Like theirs, our souls were one. 
Oh ! long we loved in silence ! Neither spake 
Of that which worked the thoughtful mine within; 
Thou didst not guess that, sleeping or awake, 
My thoughts were full of thee till thought grew sin 
