The Poetry of Flowers. 
41 
They whisper round me—what they say 
I need not hear, for in the clay 
I soon must sleep. 
Oh, love is sorrow ! sad it is 
To be both tried and true ; 
I ever trembled in my bliss ; 
Now there are farewells in a kiss— 
They sigh adieu. 
But Woodbines flaunt when Blue-bells fade, 
Where Don reflects the skies ; 
And many a youth in Shirecliffs’ shade 
Will ramble where my boyhood played, 
Though Alfred lies. 
Then panting woods the breeze will feel, 
And bowers, as heretofore, 
Beneath their load of Roses reel; 
But I through Woodbine lanes shall steal 
No more, no more. 
Well, lay me by my brother’s side, 
Where late we stood and wept; 
For I was stricken when he died— 
I felt the arrow as he sighed 
His last, and slept. 
SONGS AND CHORUS OF THE FLOWERS. 
BY LEIGH HUNT. 
ROSES. 
We are blushing Roses, 
Bending with our fulness, 
'Midst our close-capped sister buds, 
Warming the green coolness. 
