58 THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
who frequently threw sprigs of it into the grave. Slips 
of it were also sometimes placed within the coffin; and 
in some secluded villages these innocent customs are 
still practised. 
TO THE HERB ROSEMARY. 
HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 
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 lovest to dwell 
With the pale corse in lonely tomb, 
And throw across the deepest 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. 
And hark ! the wind god as he flies, 
Moans hollow in the forest trees, 
And sailing on the gusty breeze, 
Mysterious music dies. 
