THE FOETKY OF FLOWERS. 
12S 
The fortress of my comfort hath been sapp’d— 
^ Where are Joy’s banners, lighlsomely unfurl’d, 
1 hat graced the battlements ? In vapor wrapp'd 
^ In the dense smoke of stifled breath upcurl’d, 
I hey drop in tatters—forming now a pall 
For the sad mummy-heart that drips with gall. 
I have not now of broken troth to wail, 
I have not now to speak of friendship broken ; 
til Death and Death’s wild triumphs is my tale—» 
Of friendship faithful, and of love’s last token, 
A ring !—whose holy motto ne’er shall fail 
To rouse such sorrow as may ne’er be spoken 
That pictured Dove and Branch—those words, 
‘ La Falx /’ 
O direful mockery !) wear my heart away!* 
I eace 1 Peace ! alas, there is no peace for me. 
It rests with thee, beloved one ! in the grave ' 
fet, when I search the cells of Memory, 
Where silently the subterranean wave 
)f buried hope glides on, a thought of thee— 
Like sunshine on the hermit’s darkened cave— 
Meals gently o’er my spirit, whispering sweet 
Of realms beyond the tomb, where we shall meet! 
* A melancholy anecdote is attached to these lines ; 
he motto ‘La Paix’ was engraven on the bequeathed 
?ift of a beloved friend, who, in the bloom of youth 
ell a victim to i sudden and violert death in India. 
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