THE POETR y OF FLOWERS- 241 
Haste! to my pillow bear 
Those fragrant things and fair, 
Thy hand no more may bind them up at eve— 
Yet shall their odour soft 
One bright dream round me waft 
Of life, youth, summer—all that I must leave'. 
And, oh ! if thou wouldst ask 
Wherefore thy steps I task, 
The grove, the stream, the hamlet vale to trace« 
’Tis that some thought of me, 
When I am gone, may be 
The spirit bound to each familiar place. 
1 bid mine image dwell 
(Oh! break not thou the spell!) 
In the deep wood and by the fountain side J 
Thou must not, my beloved! 
Rove where we two have roved, 
Forgetting her that in her spring-time died' 
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