I 
the poetry of fI/Owers. 123 
i LOW ERS FOR THE'GRAVE. 
BY N, P. WILLIS. 
Uoom, gentle flowers' my child would pass ts 
heaven ! 
Ye look’d not for her yet with your soft eyes, 
Oh watchful ushers at Death’s narrow door! 
But lowhile you delay to let her forth, 
Angels, beyond, stay for her ! One long kiss 
From lips ail pale with agony, and tears, 
Wrung after anguish had dried up with fire 
The eyes that wept them, were the cup of life 
Held as a welcome to her. W r eep ! oh mother i 
But not that from this cup of bitterness 
A cherub of the sky has turn’d away! 
One look upon thy face ere thou depart! 
My daughter ! It is soon to let thee go ! 
My daughter ! With thy birth has gush’d a spring 
I knew not of—filling my heart with tears, 
And turning with strange tenderness to thee—> 
A love—oh God ! it seems so—’that must flow 
Far as thou fleest, and ’twixt heaven and me, 
Henceforward, be a bright and yearning chain 
Drawing me after thee ! And so, farewell! 
'Tis a harsh world, in which affection knows 
No place to treasure vp its loved and lost 
But the foul grave ! Thou, who so late was! 
sleeping 
Warn; ir. the close fold of a mother’s heart 
