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Even as the blushes of the morn

Vanish, and long ere noon
The dew-drop dieth on the thorn,
So fair I bloom'd; and was I born

To die as soon ?

To love my mother, and to die

To perish in my bloom!
Is this my sad, brief history!
A tear dropp'd from a mother's eye

Into the tomb.

He lived and loved-will sorrow sayo

By early sorrows tried ; He smiled, he sigh’d, he pass'd away : His life was but an April day,

He loved, and died !

My mother smiles, then turns away,

But turns away to weep : They whisper round mewhat they say I need not hear, for in the clay

I soon must sleep.

0, love is sorrow! sad it is

To be both tried and true;
I ever trembled in my bliss :
Now there are farewells in a kiss,

They sigh adieu.

But woodbines flaunt when blue bells fade,

Where Don reflects the skies;
And many a youth in Shirecliffs' shade
Will ramble where my boyhood play'd;

Though Alfred dies.

Then panting woods the breeze will feel

And bowers, as heretofore,
Beneath their load of roses reel :
But I through woodbine lanes shall steal

No more, no more.

Well, lay me by my brother's side,

Where late we stood and wept; For I was stricken when he died, I felt the arrow as he sigh'd

His last, and slept.





We are blushing roses,

Bending with our fulness, 'Midst our close-capp'd sister buds

Warming the green coolness.

Whatsoe'er of beauty

Yearns and yet reposes, Blush, and bosom, and sweet breath,

Took a shape in roses.

Hold one of us lightly,

See from what a slender
Stalk we bower in heavy blooms,

And roundness rich and tender:

Know you not our only

Rival flower,-the human?
Loveliest weight on lightest foot,

Joy-abundant woman?


We are lilies fair,

The flower of virgin light; Nature held us forth, and said,

“Lo! my thoughts of white.”

Ever since then, angels

Hold us in their hands ; You may see them where they take

In pictures their sweet stands.

Like the garden's angels

Also do we seem;
And not the less for being crown'd

With a golden dream.

Could you see around us

The enamour'd air,
You would see it pale with bliss

To hold a thing so fair.


We are slumbering poppies,

Lords of Lethe downs,
Some awake, and some asleep,

Sleeping in our crowns.
What perchance our dreams may know,
Let our serious beauty show.

Central depth of purple,

Leaves more bright than rose,
Who shall tell what brightest thought

Out of darkest grows ?
Who, through what funereal pain,
Souls to love and peace attain ?

Visions aye are on us,

Unto eyes of power;
Pluto's always-setting sun,

And Proserpine's bower:
There, like bees, the pale souls come,
For our drink, with drowsy hum.

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Taste, ye mortals, also;

Milky-hearted, we;-
Taste, but with a reverent care ;

Active-patient be.
Too much gladness brings to gloom
Those who on the gods presume.


We are the sweet flowers,

Born of sunny showers, (Think, whene'er you see us, what our beauty

saith ;)
Utterance, mute and bright,

Of some unknown delight,
We fill the air with pleasure, by our simple

breath :

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