Yes! twine for me the cypress bough;
But, O Matilda, twine not now
Stay'till a few brief months are past,
And I have look'd and loved my last!
When villagers my shroud bestrew
With pansies, rosemary, and rue,
Then, lady, weave a wreath for me,
And weave it of the cypress-tree.

THE FADED FLOWERS.

BY, REV. WALTER COLTON, U. S. N.

TO THE LADY WHO PRESENTED THE AUTHOR WITR

A CLUSTER OF FADED FLOWERS.

These faded flowers a softer grief

Than blooming ones beget;
More tender now on each pale leaf

The tints that linger yet:
For all the charms, that cheer'd the past,
Hang round these hues that fade the last.
The morn they had their fragrant birth,

The wild shrubs where they grew,
The bee that in its matin mirth

Hung over their pearls of dew,
Must share alike the floweret's lot,
And he with frailer things forgot.

Not thus with thee in that dim day,

When, like the breath of flowers,
Thy spirit leaves its vase of clay,

For love in those lone hours,
Shall treasure up thy gentle worth,
And warm remembrance call it forth,
And in a brighter, purer sphere,

Beyond the sunless tomb-
The virtues, that have charmed us here,

In fadeless life shall bloom;
And win from faith the fervid prayer,
To meet thy sainted spirit there.

TO THE ROSE.

BY C. P. CRANCH.

Dear flower of heaven and love! Thou glorious

thing That lookest out the garden nooks among : Rose, that art ever fair and ever young; Was it some angel or invisible wing Hovered around thy fragrant sleep, to fling His glowing mantle of warm sunset hues O'er thy unfolding petals, wet with dews Such as the flower-fays to Titania bring? O flower of thousand memories and dreams, That take the heart with faintness, while we gaze

On the rich depths of thy inwoven maze ;
From the green banks of Eden's blessed streams
I dream'd thee brought, of brighter days to tell,
Long pass'd, but promised yet with us to dwell.

BRING FLOWERS.

MRS. HEMANS.

Bring flowers, young flowers, for the festal board, To wreathe the cup ere the wine is pour'd; Bring flowers! they are springing in wood and

vale, Their breath floats out on the southern gale, And the touch of the sunbeam hath waked the

rose, To deck the hall where the bright wine flows. Bring flowers to strew in the conqueror's pathHe hath shaken thrones with his stormy wrath' He comes with the spoils of nations back, The vines he crush'd in his chariot's track, The turf looks red where he won the dayBring flowers to die in the conqueror's way! Bring flowers to the captive's lonely cell, They have tales of the joyous woods to tell ; Of the free blue streams, and the glowing sky, (And the bright world shut from his languid eye;

They will bear him a thought of the sunny hours,
And a dream of his youth-bring him flowers,

wild flowers.

Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride to

wear!
They were born to blush in her shining hair.
She is leaving the home of her childhood's mirth,
She hath bid farewell to her father's hearth.
Her place is now by another's side
Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young bride.
Bring flowers, pale flowers, o'er the bier to shed,
A crown for the brow of the early dead!
For this through its leaves hath the wild rose

burst,
For this in the woods was the violet nursed !
Though they smile in vain for what once was ours,
They are love's last gift-bring ye flowers, pale

flowers!
Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel in

prayer,
They are Nature's offering, their place is there!
They speak of hope to the fainting heart,
With a voice of promise they come and part,
They sleep in dust through the wintry hours,
They break forth in glory--bring flowers, bright

flowers!

TRANSPLANTED FLOWERS.

BY E. ELLIOTT.

Die ye

for ever,

Ye living gems of cold and fragrant fire !

when ye die, ye flowers ? Take

ye,

when in your beauty ye expire, An everlasting farewell of your bowers ? No more to listen for the wooing air, And song-brought morn, the cloud-tinged wood

lands o'er! No more to June's soft lip your breasts to bare, And drink fond evening's dewy breath no more ! Soon fades the sweetest, first the fairest dies, For frail and fair are sisters; but the heart, Fill'd with deep love, death's power to kill denies, And sobs e'en o'er the dead, “We cannot part !" Have I not seen thee, Wild Rose, in my dreams? Like a pure spirit-beauteous as the skies, When the clear blue is brighest, and the streams Dance down the hills, reflecting the rich dyes Of morning clouds, and cistus woodbine-twined Didst thou not wake me from a dream of death? Yea, and thy voice was sweeter than the wind When it inhales the love-sick violet's breath, Bending it down with kisses, where the bee Hums over golden gorse, and sunny broom, Soul of the Rose! What saidst thou then to me ?