232 
POETRY OP PLOWERS. 
TO THE HERB ROSEMARY.* 
Sweet scented flower ! who art wont to bloom 
On January’s front severe, 
And o’er the wintry desert drear 
To waft thy waste perfume ! 
Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now. 
And I will bind thee round my brow ; 
And as I twine the mournful wreath, 
I’ll weave a melancholy song ; 
And sweet the strain shall be and long. 
The melody of death. 
Come, funeral flower ! who lov’st to dwell 
With the pale corse in lonely tomb. 
And throw across the desert gloom, 
A sweet decaying smell. 
Come, press my lips, and lie with me 
Beneath the lowly alder tree. 
And we will sleep a pleasant sleep, 
And not a care shall dare intrude, 
To break the marble solitude 
So peaceful and so deep. 
• The Rosemary tuds in January. It is the flower 
commonly put into the coffins of the dead. 
