The Poetry of Flowers. 
79 
Yet, oh ! festal Rose, 
I have seen thee lying 
In thy bright repose 
Pillowed with the dying, 
Thy crimson by the life’s quick blood was flying. 
Summer, hope, and love, 
O'er that bed of pain, 
Meet in thee, yet wove 
Too, too frail a claim 
In its embracing links the lovely to detain. 
Smil’st thou, gorgeous flower ?— 
Oh ! within the spells 
Of thy beauty’s power 
Something dimly dwells, 
At variance with a world of sorrows and farewells. 
All the soul forth flowing 
In that rich perfume, 
All the proud life glowing 
In that radiant bloom, 
Have they no place but here, beneath the o’er- 
shadowing tomb ? 
Crown’st thou but the daughters 
Of our tearful race?— 
Heaven’s own purest waters 
Well might bear the trace 
Of thy consummate form, melting to softer grace. 
Will that clime enfold thee 
With immortal air? 
Shall we not behold thee 
Bright and deathless there ? 
In spirit-lustre clothed, transcendently more fair? 
