Floral Poetry. 
85 
Strike the wild harp, while maids prepare 
The Ivy meet for minstrel’s hair; 
And, while his crown of Laurel-leaves, 
With bloody hand the victor weaves, 
Let the loud trump his triumph tell; 
But, when you hear the passing-bell, 
Then, Lady, twine a wreath for me, 
And twine it of the Cypress tree. 
Yes ! twine for me the Cypress bough ; 
But, O Matilda, twine not now ! 
Stay till a few brief months are past, 
And I 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. 
Sir Walter Scott. 
