ROSEMARY. 
I'll weave a melancholy song, 
And sweet the strain shall be and long,— 
The melody of death. 
Come, funeral flower! who lovest to dwell 
With the pale corse in lonely tomb, 
And throw across the deepest gloom 
A sweet decaying smell. 
Come, press my lips, and lie with me, 
Beneath the lowly alder tree ; 
And we will sleep a pleasant sleep, 
And not a care shall dare intrude 
To break the marble solitude, 
So peaceful and so deep. 









And hark! the wind god as he flies, 
Moans hollow in the forest trees, 
And sailing on the gusty breeze, 
Mysterious music dies. 
Sweet flower! that requiem wild is mine, 
It warns me to the lowly shrine, 
The cold turf altar of the dead ; 
My grave shall be in yon lone spot, 
Where, as I lie, by all forgot, 
A dying fragrance thou wilt o’er my ashes 
shed. 






DIE HERZ BLUME. 
TOM HOOD. 
THERE grew a little flower once, 
That blossomed in a day, 
And some said it would ever bloom, 
And some *twould fade away ; 








