CYPRESS 
Mournful Thoughts. 
Strange shadows o’er my pathway have been sweeping, 
And dirge-like music floats upon the air; 
Earth’s tender blossoms on her breast are sleeping, 
And Tshall soon be gathered with them there. 
This languid pulse doth herald, all too surely, 
The early doom of her who, yesterday, 
Amid hope’s fairy visions smiled securely, 
Nor mark’d the sad refrain—Away—away! 
Away!—Away! Life’s passion’s flowers are faded. 
How fair they were, when first upon my brow— 
Ere yet with hues of care ’twas darkly shaded— 
I twin’d them gaily where they perish now! 
I know that lov’d ones, o’er my pillow bending, 
Will think to plant the Cypress near my head— 
Will deem the white Rose and the Lily blending, 
Meet floral emblems of the early dead. 
Thou wilt not gather from their leafy bowers 
A single bloom that whispers of decay, 
Telling too truly to the mourning hours, 
Of the frail form forever passed away. 
But o’er the Roses gentle hands are bearing, 
Thou’lt bid the Amaranth in triumph wave; 
And, where the Cypress leans in mute despairing, 
Victorious Laurel shall defy the grave. 
And thus with thee I still shall hold communion, 
When angels bear me through the vale of death; 
Too close on earth our spirit’s mystic union, 
That it should cease with the departing breath. 
’Twere sweet to linger mid Life’s sunny flowers— 
Might I but strew them in thy path of care: 
But God hath call’d me to eternal bowers, 
And I shall wait in gladness for thee there. 
M. L. Seward. 
