The Poetry of Flowers. 
71 
That graced the battlements ? In vapour wrapped, 
In the dense smoke of stifled breath upcurled, 
They drop in tatters, forming now a pall 
For the sad mummy-heart that drips with gall. 
I have not now of broken troth to wail, 
I have not now to speak of friendship broken ; 
Of Death and Death’s wild triumphs is my tale— 
Of friendship faithful, and of love's last token, 
A ring !—whose holy motto ne’er shall fail 
To rouse such sorrow as may ne’er be spoken : 
That pictured Dove and Branch—those words 
“ La Paix /” 
(O direful mockery !) wear my heart away ! * 
“ Peace ?"—Peace ! alas, there is no peace for me. 
It rests with thee, belov’d one, in the grave 1 
Yet, when I search the cells of Memory, 
Where silently the subterranean wave 
Of buried hope glides on, a thought of thee— 
Like sunshine on the hermit’s darkened cave— 
Steals gently o’er my spirit, whispering sweet 
Of realms beyond the tomb, where we shall meet! 
Our love—how did it spring? In sooth it grew, 
Even as some rare exotic in a clime 
Unfriendly to its growth : yet rich in hue, 
Voluptuous in fragrance, as if Time 
Had been to it all sunlight and soft dew,— 
As if upon its freshness the cold rime 
Of death should never fall! How came it, then? 
Eve n as the manna fell ’midst famished men, 
* A melancholy anecdote is attached to these lines ; 
the motto “ La Paix” was engraved on the bequeathed 
gift of a beloved friend, who, in the bloom of youth, 
fell a victim to a sudden and violent death in India. 
