168 THE lover’s offering, 
Then says he must be gone, and then doth find 
Something he should have spoke that’s out of mind; 
Then turns, comes back, sighs, pants, and yet doth 
go, 
Apt to retire, and loath to leave her so ;— 
So part I. Browne. 
—— 
BRING FLOWERS. 
Bring flowers, young flowers, for the festal board, 
To wreath the cup ere the wine is poured ; 
Bring flowers! they are springing in wood and vale, 
Their breath floats out on the southern gale, 
And the touch of the sunbeam hath waked the rose. 
To deck the hall where the bright wine flows. 
Bring flowers, to strew in the conqueror’s path— 
He hath shaken thrones with his stormy wrath ! 
He comes with the spoil of nations back, 
The vines lie crushed in his chariot’s track, 
The turf looks red where he won the day— 
Bring flowers to die in the conqueror’s way! 
Bring flowers, to the captive’s lonely cell, 
They have tales of the joyous woods to tell; 
Of the free blue streams and the glowing sky, 
And the bright world shut from his languid eye; 
They will bear him a thought of the sunny hours, 
And a dream of his youth,—bring him flowers, wild 
flowers! 
