128 
THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
Unsullied as the morning dew, 
Descend, and all thy soul imbue. 
Yes ! like the blossoms of the waste 
Would we the sky-born waters taste, 
To the High Fountain’s sacred spring 
The chalice let us humbly bring : 
So shall we find the streams of heaven 
To him who seeks art freely given ; 
The morning and the evening dew 
Shall still our failing strength renew. 
A CYPRESS LEAF, 
FOR THE GRAVE OF A DEAR ONE. 
The feelings I have felt have died away, 
The love that was my lamp death’s dews have 
quench’d ; 
The faith which, through life’s ills, ne’er knew 
decay, 
Hath in the chill showers of the grave been 
' drench’d ; 
The hopes that buoyed my spirit ’mid the spray 
Of life’s wild ocean, ope by one are wrench’d— 
Cruelly wrench’d away,—and I am now 
A solitary leaf on a rent bough ! 
The link that knit me to mankind is snapp’d— 
Briefly it bound me to a callous world; 
