ROSEMARY. 
89 
Sweet flower ! that requiem wild is mine, 
It warns me to the lowly shrine, 
The cold turf altar of the dead ; 
My grave shall be in yon lone spot, . 
Where, as I lie, by all forgot, 
A dying fragrance thou wilt o’er my ashes shed. 
DIE HERZ BLUME. 
TOM HOOD. 
There grew a little flower once, 
That blossomed in a day, 
And some said it would ever bloom, 
And some ’twould fade away ; 
And some said it was Happiness, 
And some said it was Spring, 
And some said it was Grief and Tears, 
And many such a thing; 
But still the little flower bloomed, 
And still it lived and throve, 
And men do it call “ Summer Growth,'* 
But angels call it “ Love !” 
