i86 THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
When our foe, in the hue of his slaughters, 
Made Salem’s high places his prey; 
And ye, O her desolate daughters ! 
Were scattered all weeping away. 
While sadly we gazed on the river, 
Which rolled on in freedom below, 
He demanded the song; but, oh, never 
That triumph the stranger shall know ! 
May this right hand be withered for ever 
Ere it string our high harp for the foe ! 
On the willows that harp is suspended, 
O Salem ! Its sound should be free : 
And the hour when thy glories were ended 
But left me that token of thee; 
And ne’er shall its soft note be blended 
With the voice of the spoiler by me. 
WEARING THE WILLOW. 
Percy’s reliques. 
Willy —How now, shepherde, what meanes that ? 
Why that willowe in thy hat ? 
Why thy scarffes of red and yellowe 
Turned to branches of green willowe? 
Cuddy —They are changed, and so am I; 
Sorrowes live, but pleasures die : 
Phillis hath forsaken mee, 
Which makes me weare the willowe-tree. 
Willy-— Shepherde, be advised by mee, 
Cast off grief and willowe-tree ; 
