rOETKY OF FLOWERS. 237 
She is leaving the home of her childhood’s mirth, 
She hath bid farewell to her father’s hearth ; 
Her place is now by another’s side— 
Bring flowers for the locks of the fair j'oung bride ! 
Bring flowers, pale flowers, on the bier to shed, 
A crown for the brow of the early dead ; 
For this, through its leaves, hath the white rose 
burst; 
For this, in the woods, was the violet nursed ; 
Though they smile in vain for what once was ours, 
They are love’s last gift—bring ye flowers, pale 
flowers! 
Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel in 
prayer, 
They are nature’s offering, their place is there t 
They speak of hope to the fainting heart, 
With a voice of promise they come and part. 
They sleep in dust through the winter hours. 
The break forth in glory—bring flowers, bright 
flowers! 
TO A MOSS ROSE. 
Whilst across the dewy bed 
The playful graces lightly tread : 
