92 
rOETE,Y OE FLOWERS. 
Yet, oh ! festal rose, 
I have seen thee lying 
In thy bright repose 
Pillowed with the dying, 
Thy crimson by the life’s quick blood was flying. 
Summer, hope, and love. 
O’er that bed of pain, 
Met in thee, yet wove 
Too, too frail a chain 
In its embracing links the lovely to detain. 
Smil’st thou, gorgeous flower ?— 
Oh ! within the spells 
Of thy beauty’s power 
Something dimly dwells. 
At variance with a world of sorrows and fare¬ 
wells. 
All the soul forth-flowing 
In that rich perfume. 
All the proud life glowing 
In that radiant bloom, 
Have they no place but here, beneath the o’er* 
shadowing tomb ? 
, Crown’st thou but the daughters 
Of our tearful race ?— __ 
Heaven’s own purest waters, 
Well might bear the trace 
Of thy consummate form, melting to softer grace. 
