TAE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 12$ 
The fortress of my comfort hath been sapp’d— 
Where are Joy’s banners, lighlsomely unfurl’d, 
That graced the battlements? In vapor wrapp’d 
In the dense smoke of stifled breath upcurl’d, 
They drop in tatters—forming now a pall 
For the sad mummy-heart that drips with gall. 
I have not now of broken troth to wail, 
I have not now to speak of friendship broken; 
Of Death and Death’s wild triumphs is my tale™* 
Of friendship faithful, and of love’s last token, 
A ring !—whose holy motto ne’ei shall fail 
To rouse such sorrow as may ne’er be spoken 
That pictured Dove and Branch—those word* 
‘ La Paix /’ 
;0 direful mockery !) wear my heart away!* 
1 Peace V —Peace ! alas, there is no peace for me. 
It rests with thee, beloved one ! in the grave ! 
Y"et, when I search the cells of Memory, 
Where silently the subterranean wave 
Of buried hope glides on, a thought of thee— 
Like sunshine on the hermit’s darkened cave— 
Steals gently o’er my spirit, whispering sweet 
Of realms beyond the tomb, where we shall meet! 
* A melancholy anecdote is attached to these lines j 
(he motto ‘ La Paix’ was engraven on the bequeathed 
?ift of a beloved friend, who, in the bloom of youth 
fell a victim to t sudden and violer.t death in India. 
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