26 
The Poetry of Flowers. 
The May-flower and the Eglantine 
May shade a brow less sad than mine ; 
But, lady, weave no wreath for me, 
Or weave it of the Cypress tree. 
Let dimpled Mirth his temples twine 
With tendrils of the laughing Vine ; 
The manly Oak, the pensive Yew, 
To patriot and to sage be due ; 
The Myrtle bough bids lovers live, 
But that Matilda will not give ; 
Then, lady, twine no wreath for me, 
Or twine it of the Cypress tree. 
Let merry England proudly rear 
Her blended Roses, bought so dear ; 
Let Albin bind her bonnet blue 
With Heath and Harebell dipped in dew ; 
On favoured Erin’s crest be seen 
The flower she loves of emerald green— 
But, lady, twine no wreath for me, 
Or twine it of the Cypress tree. 
Strike the wild harp, while maids prepare 
The Ivy, meet for minstrel’s hair ; 
And while his crown of laurel leaves 
With bloody hand the victor weaves, 
Let the loud trump his triumph tell; 
But when you hear the passing bell, 
Then, lady, twine a wreath for me, 
And twine it of the Cypress tree. 
Yes, twine for me the Cypress bough ; 
But, O Matilda ! twine not now— 
Stay till a few brief months are past, 
And I have looked and loved my last. 
