GARDENS, WREATH 6, &c. 
31 
Scattered in rich display ; 
Bring flowers — fresh flowers — around my dying bed, 
The sweetness of Ine sunny south to shed, 
Ere I am called away. 
Bring flowers — fresh flowers — from every sheltered 
glade, 
I know their brilliant beauties soon will fade 
Beneath my feverish breath ; 
But their bright hues seem to my wandering thought, 
With promises of bliss and beauty fraught, 
Winning my heart from death. 
Bring flowers — fresh flowers — ere they again shall 
bloom, 
I shall be lying in the silent tomb, 
Mouldering’ in cold decay; 
Bring flowers — fresh flowers — that I may cheer my 
heart 
With pleasant images, ere I depart 
To tread the grave’s dark way. 
Bring fruits — rich fruits — that blush on every bough 
Bending above the traveller’s weary brow, 
And wooing him to taste ; 
Bring fruits—methinks I never knew how sweet 
The joys that every day our senses greet, 
Till now in life’s swift waste 
