214 
Floral Poetry. 
1 ? 
He lived and loved—will sorrow say— 
By early sorrows tried ; 
He smiled, he sighed, he passed away, 
His life was but an April day— 
He loved, and died ! 
My mother smiles, then turns away, 
But turns away to weep ; 
They whisper round me—what they say 
I need not hear, for in the clay 
I soon must sleep. 
Oh, love is sorrow ! sad it is 
To be both tried and true; 
I ever trembled in my bliss ; 
Now there are farewells in a kiss— 
They sigh adieu. 
But Woodbines flaunt when Blue-bells fade, 
Where Don reflects the skies ; 
And many a youth in Shirecliffs’ shade 
Will ramble where my boyhood played, 
Though Alfred dies. 
Then panting woods the breeze will feel, 
And bowers, as heretofore, 
Beneath their load of Roses reel; 
But I through Woodbine lanes shall steal 
No more, no more. 
Well, lay me by my brother’s side, 
Where late we stood and wept; 
For I was stricken when he died— 
I felt the arrow as he sighed— 
His last, and slept. 
E. Elliott. 
