THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
12S 
The fortress of my comfort hath been sapp’d— 
Where are Joy’s banners, lightsomely unfurl’d t 
That graced the battlements ? In vapor wrapp'd 
In the dense smoke of stifled breath upcurl’d, 
They drop in tatters—forming now a pall 
For the sad mummy-heart that drips with gall. 
I have not now of broken troth to wail, 
I have not now to speak of friendship broken ; 
Of Death and Death’s wild triumphs is my tale— 
Of friendship faithful, and of love’s last token, 
A ring!—whose holy motto ne’er shall fail 
To rouse such sorrow as may ne’er be spoken 
That pictured Dove and Branch—those words, 
‘ La Paix !’ 
(0 direful mockery !) wear my heart away !* 
1 Peace ?’—Peace ! alas, there is no peace for me'. 
•It rests with thee, beloved one ! in the grave- 1 
Yet, when I search the cells of Memory, 
Where silently the subterranean wave 
Of buried hope glides on, a thought of thee—• 
Like sunshine on the hermit’s darkened cave— 
Steals gently o’er my spirit, whispering sweet 
Of realms beyond the tomb, where w r e shall meet V 
* A melancholy anecdote is attached to these lines j, 
,!he motto ‘La Paix’ was engraven on the bequeathe*? 1 
gift of a beloved friend, who, in the bi’oom of youth, 
fell a victim to 3 sudden and violert death in India. 
9 
