THE DYING BOY. 
155 
Sweet violets in the budding grove 
Peep where the glad waves run ; 
The wren below, the thrush above, 
Of bright to-morrow’s joy and love 
Sing to the sun. 
And where the rose-leaf, ever bold, 
Hears bees chant hymns to God, 
The breeze-bowed palm, moss’d o’er with gold, 
Smiles o’er the well in summer cold, 
And daisied sod. 
But thou, pale blossom, thou art come, 
And flowers in winter blow, 
T o tell me that the worm makes room 
For me, her brother, in the tomb, 
And thinks me slow. 
For as the rainbow of the dawn 
Foretells an eve of tears, 
A sunbeam on the sadden’d lawn 
I smile, and weep to be withdrawn 
In early years. 
