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O'er live dark rock the dashing brook,
With look of anger, leaps again,
Touched by the wither'd hand of Time:
But on my heart thy cheek of bloom
Shall live when Nature's smile has fled; And rich with memory's sweet perfume, all o'er her grave thy tribute incense shed. There shalt thou live and wake the glee
That echoed on thy native hill; And when, loved flower! I think of thee, infant feet will seem to seek thee still.
THE CYPRESS WREATH.
BY SIR W. SCOTT.
OLADY, twine no wreath for me,
The May-flower and the eglantine