28 
THE BOUQUET. 
They sought in life to gain. 
There rests the dreaming poet now, 
Who once had hop’d to deck his brow 
With Fame’s unfading lays ; 
Now other minstrels win the race 
And make the lost one’s burial place 
Echo with their proud lays. 
And there the slave of traffic lies; 
In vain the golden chances rise. 
In vain the speculator’s prize 
Is offered in the mart:—no more 
He has, as in life’s scheming hour, 
The Alchemist’s once fabled power. 
His crafty spirit sleeps the while 
His brother toiler’s of the day 
Sweep by to bask in Fortune’s smile 
And bear her spoils away ! 
The dead, the quiet dead should rest 
Far from the busy haunts of life. 
Far from all care and toil unblest. 
Far from all noise and strife. 
In some sweet spot, where Nature sheds 
A smile serene and fair, 
We e’er should make their lowly beds 
And lay the sleepers there. 
The smiling Sun or pensive Moon, 
Should be the only lights that shine 
In such a scene ; the soothing tune 
Of wild-bird’s song divine. 
Or murmuring waters gentle lay 
The only music tones that play 
Around the solemn shrine. 
