136 FLORAL POESY. 
Of March hath sung, even before their deaths, 
The dirge of those young children of the year. 
But here is heart’s-ease for your woes. And now, 
The honeysuckle flower I give to thee, 
And love it for my sake, my own Cyane : 
It hangs upon the stem it loves, as thou 
Hast clung to me, through every joy and sorrow; 
It flourishes with its guardian’s growth, as thou dost 3 
And if the woodman’s axe should drop the tree, 
The woodbine too must perish. 


WREATHS. 
WEAVE thee a wreath of woodbine, child, 
"Twill suit thy infant brow ; 
It runs up free in the woodlands wild, 
As tender and as frail as thou. 
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He bound his brow with a woodbine wreath, 
And smiled his playful eye, 
And he lightly skipped o’er the blossomed heath, 
In his young heart’s ecstasy. 
I saw him not till his manly brow 
Was clouded with thought and care, 
And the smile of youth, and its beauty, now 
No longer wantoned there. 
Go, twine thee a crown of the ivy tree, 
And gladden thy loaded breast : 
Bright days may yet shine out for thee, 
And thy bosom again know rest. 

