O’oi the dark rock the dashing brook, 
\V\th look of anger, leaps again, 
Ana hastening to each flowery nook, 
Its distant voice is heard far down the glen, 
Fair child of art! thy charms decay, 
Touched by the wither’d hand of Time: 
And hushed the music of that day, 
When my voice mingled with the streamlet's 
chime; 
But on my heart thy cheek of bloom 
Shall live when Nature’s smile has fled ; 
And rich with memory’s sweet perfume, 
Shall o’er her grave thy tribute incense shed. 
There shalt thou live and wake the glee 
That echoed on thy native hill; 
And when, loved flower! I think of thee, 
My infant feet will seem to seek thee still. 
THE CYPRESS WREATH. 
BY SIR W. SCOTT. 
O lady, (twine no wreath for me, 
Or twine it of the cypress-tree ! 
Too lively glow the lilies light, 
The varnish’d holly’s all too t -ight, 
