THE POETRY OF FLOWERS, 12¢ 
The fortress of my comfort hath been sapp’d-— 
Where are Joy’s banners, lightsomely wnfurl’d, 
That graced the battlements? In vapor wrapp’d 
In the dense smoke of stifled breath upeurl’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 
hat pictured Dove and Branch—those words, 
‘La Paie ? 
O direful mockery !) wear my heart away !* 
Peace ?’—Peace! alas, there is no peace for me. 
It rests with thee, beloved'one! in the grave! 
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 we shall meet ! 
* A melancholy anecdote is: attached to these lines ; 
-he motto ‘La Paix? was engraven on the bequeathed 
sift of a beloved friend, who, in the bloom of youta 
‘ell a victim to a sudden and violert death in India. 
J 





