THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
83* 
Thy grave must be thy cradle now; 
The wild flowers o’er thy breast shall glow, 
While still my heart, all full of thee, 
In widow’d solitude shall be. 
No taint of earth, no thought of sin, 
E’er dwelt thy stainless breast within, 
And God hath laid thee down to sleep, 
Like a pure pearl below the deep. 
Yea! from mine arms thy soul hath flown 
Above, and found the heavenly throne, 
To join that blest angelic ring, 
That aye arottnd the altar sing. 
I thought, when years had roll’d away, 
That thou wouldst be my age’s stay ; 
And often have I dream’d to see 
The boy—the youth—the man in thee 
But thou hast past! for ever gone, 
To leave me childless and alone, 
Like Rachel frowning tear on tear. 
And looking not for comfort here ! 
Farewell, my child, the dews shall fall, 
At noon and evening, o’er thy pall; 
And daisies, when the vernal year 
Revives, upon thy turf appear- 
