DEAD LEA VES. 
253 
With thy heart I am blest, love, 
So I’ll brave the chill rain; 
And patiently rest, love, 
Till the sun shines again. 
And I hope when the Spring, love, 
Gives leaves to the tree, 
Some flowers it will bring, love, 
For vou and lor me. 
WITHERING—WITHERING. 
HOFFMAN. 
Withering —withering—all are withering— 
All of Hope’s flowers that youth hath nursed— 
Flowers of love too early blossoming ! 
Buds of ambition too frail to burst. 
Faintly—faintly—O ! how faintly 
I feel life’s pulses ebb and flow : 
Yet sorrow, I know thou dealest daintily 
With one who should not wish to live moe. 
Nay ! why, young heart, thus timidly shrinking 
Why doth thy upward wing thus tire ? 
Why are thy pinions so droopingly sinking, 
When they should only waft thee higher ? 
Upward—upward let them be waving, 
Lifting the soul toward her place of birth : 
There are guerdons there, more worth thy having— 
Far more than any these lures of the earth. 
