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The Poetry of Flowers. 

Alas ! for me shall May in vain 
The powers of life restore ; 
These eyes that weep and watch in pain 
Shall see her charms no more. 
No, no ; this anguish cannot last ! 
Beloved friends, adieu ! 
The bitterness of death were past, 
Could I resign but you. 
But oh! in every mortal pang 
That rends my soul from life— 
That soul, which seems on you to hang 
‘Through each convulsive strife, 
Even now, with agonising 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 soul, 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 ; 
D 


