THE POETRY OP FI OWiRS. ' 
And where the rose-leaf, ever bold. 
Hears bees chant hymns to God, 
The breeze-bow’d palm, moss’d o’er with gold, 
Smiles o’er the well in summer cold, 
And dasied sod. 
But thou, pale blossom, thou art come, 
And flowers in winter blow. 
To tell me that the worm makes room 
For me, her brother, in the tomb, 
And thinks me slow. 
For as the rainbow of the dawn 
Foretells an eve of tears, 
A sunbeam on the sadden d lawn 
I smile, and weep to be withdrawn 
In early years. 
Thy leaves will come! but songful spring 
Will see no leaf of mine ; 
Her bells will ring, her bridemaids sing, 
When my young leaves are withering 
Where no suns shine. 
Oh, might I breathe morn’s dewy breath 
When June’s sweet Sabbaths chime'. 
But, thine before my time, oh, death! 
I go where no flow’r blossometh, 
Before my time. 
