The withered boquet was covered with green slime, and like
the hand that held it, bore no resemblance to its former self. "Surely
in the midst of life we are in death."
To Miss H---- B----,
These Lines Are Affectionately Dedicated By ----.
Maiden, for thee I'd tune the lyre;
Might minstrelsy my song inspire;
Could I a gifted offering bring,
I'd boldly sweep each silken string,
And wake a sweet and thrilling strain,
Thy heart would echo back again.
But though so feebly sings my muse,
I trust her song thou'lt not refuse;
But all unaided by the Nine,
Accept the boon from friendship's shrine.
Youth round thee her garland weaves,
Of varied flow'rs and verdant leaves,
And leads thee forth in gardens fair,
To cull exotics rich and rare.
And knowledge bids thy youthful mind,
Wisdom, in her choice fruits to find.
But sober age holds stern control
O'er the deep currents of my soul;
I may not pause to cull the flow'rs,
That bloom in fancy's fairy bow'rs,
But onward press, from day to day,
In duty's stern and rugged way;
Yet ever upward may I rise,
To yon bright world beyond the skies.
Your cheek is ting'd with youthful bloom,
While mine is faded for the tomb,
And blended time with anxious care,
Have left their deep impressions there.
In graceful curls your ringlets stray,
While mingle mine with mournful gray.
Hope spreads gay roses in your way,
And points to many a future day,--
And flinging wild her scented flow'rs,
Beckons to her rosy bow'rs;
But I have seen such hopes decay,
And each fair promise fade away;
Have seen the syren beckon on:--
And spread new charms when one had flown,
Till ev'ry blooming flow'ret died,
And wither'd leaves hung by my side.
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