94 DROPS FROM FLORA’S CUP. 
TO THE ROSEMARY. 
H. K. WHITE. 
Sweet-scented flower! who 'rt wont to bloom 
On January’s frost severe, 
And o’er the wintry desert drear 
To waft thy waste perfume! 
Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now, 
And I will bind thee round my brow; 
And, as I twine the mournful wreath, 
I’ll weave a melancholy song, 
And sweet the strain shall be, and long 
The melody of death. 
Come, funeral flower! who lov’st to dwell 
With the pale corse in the lonely tomb, 
And throw across the desert gloom 
A sweet, decaying smell; 
Come, press my lips and lie with me 
Beneath the lowly alder tree: 
And we will sleep a pleasant sleep, 
And not a care shall dare intrude, 
To break the marble solitude, 
So peaceful and so deep. 
And hark! the wind-god as he flies, 
Moans hollow in the forest trees, 
And sailing on the gusty breeze, 
Mysterious music dies. 
