DROPS FROII FLORA’S CUP. 23 
WREATHS. 
ANON. 
Weave thee a wreath of woodbine, child, 
*T will suit thy infant brow; 
It runs up in the woodland wild, 
As tender and as frail as thou. 
I saw him not till his manly brow 
Was clouded with thought and care ; 
And the smile of youth, and its beauty, now 
No longer wantoned there 
Go, twine thee a crown of the ivy tree, 
And gladden thy loaded breast: 
Bright days may yet shine out for thee, 
And thy bosom again know rest. 
Long years rolled on, — and I saw again 
His form in hoary age; 
His forehead was deeply furrowed then, 
In life’s last feeble stage. 
0, be thy crown, old man, I said, 
Of the yew and the cypress made; 
A garland meet for thy silvered head 
Ere it low in the tomb be laid. 
