ROSE, WITHERED 
Loved and Lost. 
’Tis now the month of light and bloom, 
The month of many roses; 
I heed it not. The silent tomb 
Our sweetest flower encloses. 
The sun upon the bright blue streams, 
Throws many a golden arrow; 
But Mary’s eye no longer beams— 
The tomb is dark and narrow. 
The winds are playing through the trees 
That fringe the proud old river; 
Our Mary’s voice was like the breeze— 
And that is stilled forevei! 
S. C. E. 
ON A DEAD FLOWER. 
Thee I have cherish’d half a score of years, 
Who call no living flower mine own on earth 
From my small boyhood, to the hour that wears 
A firmer sorrow, and a hollower mirth. 
Thou wast the gift of a mild playmate, whom 
Death breath’d upon as early as on thee, 
And straight, sweet flower, it yielded its perfume, 
And wither’d like thy leaf, young joy in me. 
And I will cherish thee, poor faded bud, 
Till death upon my heart his chill hand lays; 
For a pale flower may preach to us of good, 
If it doth whisper of those purer days,— 
Days when the heart, this harden’d heart, was young, 
And trembled to the simplest song Hope ever sung. 
J. F. H. 
