236 
THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
MOTHER’S DIRGE OVER HER CHILD 
BY D. M. MOIR. 
Bring me flowers all young and sweet. 
That I may strew the winding-sheet, 
Where calm thou sleepest, baby fair, 
With roseless cheek and auburn hair. 
Bring me the rosemary, whose breath 
Perfumed the wild and desert heath; 
The lily of the vale, which too, 
In silence and in beauty grew. 
\ 
Bring cypress from some sunless spot, 
Bring me the blue forget-me-not; 
That I may strew them o’er thy bier, 
With long-drawn sigh and gushing tear. 
Oh, what upon this earth doth prove 
So steadfast as a mother’s love! 
Oh, what on earth can bring relief 
Or solace to a mother’s grief! 
No more my baby shalt thou lie, 
With drowsy smiles and half-shut eye. 
Pillow’d upon my fostering breast, 
Serenely sinking into rest! 
