186 
THE ROSEMARY. 
And hark! the wind god, as he flies, 
Moans hollow in the forest trees. 
And, sailing on the gusty breeze. 
Mysterious music dies. 
Sweet flower! that requiem wild is mine ; 
It warns me to the lonely 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. 
H. K. Write. 
