The Poetry of Flowers. 
27 
When villagers my shroud bestrew 
With Pansies, Rosemary, and Rue— 
Then, lady, weave a wreath for me, 
And weave it of the Cypress tree. 
BRING FLOWERS. 
MRS. HEMANS. 
Bring flowers, young flowers, for the festal board, 
To wreathe the cup ere the wine is poured ; 
Bring flowers ! they are springing in wood and vale, 
Their breath floats out on the southern gale, 
And the touch of the sunbeam hath waked the Rose, 
To deck the hall where the bright wine flows. 
Bring flowers to strew in the conqueror’s path— 
He hath shaken thrones with his stormy wrath ! 
He comes with the spoils of nations back, 
The vines he crushed in his chariot’s track, 
The turf looks red where he won the day— 
Bring flowers to die in the conqueror’s way ! 
Bring flowers to the captive’s lonely cell, 
They have tales of the joyous woods to tell ; 
Of the free blue streams, and the glowing sky, 
And the bright world shut from his languid eye ; 
They will bear him a thought of the sunny hours, 
And a dream of his youth—bring him flowers, wild 
flowers ! 
Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride to wear ! 
They were worn to blush in her shining hair ; 
