80 DROPS 'from flora’s cop. 
A FLOWER FROM MOUNT VERNON. 
MISS L. P. SMITH. 
Bright blossom ! thou hast breathed the air 
Around our hero’s tomb — 
What do the night-winds murmur there, 
When skies are wrapt in gloom ? 
A dirge above the sleeping one, 
Of giant heart and arm ? 
Above a race of glory run, 
Whose memory has a charm 
To thrill young hearts, and lift them up 
To thirst for glory’s gilded cup ? 
Sheds not the moon in radiance there 
A brighter, holier light ? 
Look not the stare with smiles more fair, 
From off the brow of night ? 
Send not the dews, which bathe that steep, 
A fragrant incense round, 
As they were saci-ed tears, to weep 
O’er fame that death has crowned ? 
Didst thou not bow thj r head, bright gem 
Of Nature’s peerless diadem, 
O’er him who sleeps in glory there, 
Beneath a nation’s grateful prayer. 
