THE DYING BOY TO THE SLOE BLOSSOM 
BY E. ELLIOTT. 
Before thy leaves thou com’st once more, 
White blossom of the sloe ! 
Thy leaves will come as heretofore ; 
But this poor heart, its troubles o’er, 
Will then lie low. 
A month at least before thy time 
Thou com’st, pale flower, to me ; 
For well thou know’st the frosty rime 
Will blast me ere my vernal prime, 
No more to be. 
Why here in winter? No storm lours 
O’er nature’s silent shroud ! 
But blithe larks meet the sunny showers. 
High o’er the doom’d untimely flowers 
In beauty bow’d. 
1G4 
