90 
THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
Even now, with agonizing grasp 
Of terror and regret, 
To all in life its love would clasp, 
Clings close and closer yet. 
Yet, why, immortal, vital spark! 
Thus mortally opprest ? 
Look up, my doul, through prospects dark 
And bid thy terrors rest; 
Forget, forego thy earthly part, 
Thine heavenly being trust: 
Ah, vain attempt! my coward heart 
Still shuddering clings to dust. 
O ye ! who soothe the pangs of death 
With love’s own patient care, 
Still, still retain this fleeting breath, 
Still pour the fervent prayer. 
And ye, whose smile must greet my eye 
No more, nor voice my ear, 
Who breathe for me the tender sigh, 
And shed the pitying tear; 
'Whose kindness (though far, far removed) 
My grateful thoughts perceive, 
Pride of my life, esteem’d, beloved, 
My last sad claim receive ! 
Oh ! do not quite your friend forget, 
Forget alone her faults; 
And speak of her with fond regret 
Who asks your lingering thoughts. 
