OH, LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
219 
LOVE LIES BLEEDING. 
Where willows wept o’er woodbine bower, 
I plucked a crimson plant unheeding; 
But little reck’d the crimson flower 
Which I had culled, was “ Love-lies-bleeding.” 
Oh! what a train of glowing- thought 
Then filled my mind—all words exceeding— 
Ere I had left the flowery spot 
I pondex-ed thus on “ Love-lies-bleeding.” 
Full many a heart in bosom fair, 
Which spirits of the skies are reading, 
Is now the ruin of despair— 
The secret shrine of “ Love-lies-bleeding.” 
Man may forget the loved one lost, 
A life of change and pleasure leading; 
But if sweet woman’s heart is crossed, 
Deep in its centre “ Love-lies-bleeding.” 
Is there a blushing cheek can smile, 
When sorrow on the breast is feeding ? 
Is there an eye can sparkle, while 
A broken heart with “ Love-lies-bleeding ?” 
Ah! no—as falls the gentle dove, 
Its wound hid from the world unheeding; 
Though not unknown to heaven above— 
So sinks the heart where “ Love-lies-bleeding.” 
