THE POETRY OF FTLOWERS. 4] 
I'he May-flower and the eglantine 
May shade a brow less sad than mine; 
But, lady, weave no wreath for me, 
Or weaverit of the cypress-tree. 
Let dimpled Mirth his temples twine 
With tendrils of the laughing vine ; 
The manly oak, the pensive yew, 
To patriot and to sage be due; 
The myrtle bough bids lovers live, 
But that Matilda will not give ; 
Then, lady, twine no wreath for me, 
Or twine it of the cypress-tree. 
‘Let merry England proudly rear 
Her blended roses, bought so dear ; 
Let Albin bind her bonnet blue 
With heath and harebell dipp’d in dew ; 
On favour’d Erin’s crest be seen 
The flower she loves of emerald green— 
But, lady, twine no wreath for me, 
Or twine it of the cypress-tree. 
Strike the wild harp, while maids prepare 
The ivy meet for minstrel’s hair ; 
And while his crown of laurel leaves 
With bloody hand the victor weaves, 
Let the loud trump his triumph tell; 
But when you hear the passing bell, 
Then, lady, twine a wreath for me, 
And twine it of the cypress-trse. 














