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One kindlier heart, all untainted by earth,
THEY say, that afar in the land of the west,
There verdure fades never; immortal in bloom,
Sweet strains wildly float on the breezes that kiss.
But fierce as the snake, with his eyeballs of fire, When his scales are all brilliant and glowing with ire, Are the warriors to all, save the maids of their isle, Whose law is their will and whose life is their smile : From beauty, there, valor and strength are not rovers, And peace reigns supreme in the green isle of lovers.
And he who has sought to set foot on its shore,
IDEATH OF THE FIL O W E R. S.
THE melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere.
Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the withered leaves lie dead;
They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread.
The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay,
And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day.
Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood ; Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours. The rain is falling where they lie; but the cold November rain Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones again.
The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, And the wild-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow ;
214 D. E. A. T H OF THE FL O W E R S.
But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade and glen. And now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home, When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, [more. And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no
And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died,