THE DYING GIRL AND FLOWERS.
“I desire as I look on these, the ornaments and children of earth, to
know whether, indeed, such things I shall see no more?—whether
they have no likeness, no archetype in the world in which my future
home is to be cast? or whether they have their images above, only
wrought in a more wondrous and delightful mould.”
Conversations with an ambitious Student in ill health.
Bear them not from grassy dells
Where wild bees have honey-cells;
Not from where sweet water-sounds
Thrill the greenwood to its bounds;
Not to waste their scented breath
On the silent room of Death!
Kindred to the breeze they are,
And the glow-worm's emerald star,
And the bird, whose song is free
And the many-whispering tree:
Oh! too deep a love, and vain,
They would win to earth again.
Spread them not before the eyes,
Closing fast on summer skies!
Woo thou not the spirit back,
From its lone and viewless track,
With the bright things which have birth
Wide o'er all the colour'd earth!
With the violet's breath would rise
Thoughts too sad for her who dies;
From the lily's pearl-cup shed,
Dreams too sweet would haunt her bed;
Dreams of youth—of spring-time eves—
Music—beauty—all she leaves!
Hush! 'tis thou that dreaming art,
Calmer is her gentle heart.
Yes! o'er fountain, vale, and grove,
Leaf and flower hath gush'd her love;
But that passion, deep and true,
Knows not of a last adieu.
Types of lovelier forms than these,
In their fragile mould she sees;
Shadows of yet richer things,
Born beside immortal springs,
Into fuller glory wrought,
Kindled by surpassing thought!
Therefore, in the lily's leaf,
She can read no word of grief;
O'er the woodbine she can dwell,
Murmuring not—Farewell! farewell!
And her dim, yet speaking eye,
Greets the violet solemnly.
Therefore once, and yet again,
Strew them o'er her bed of pain;
From her chamber take the gloom
With a light and flush of bloom:
So should one depart, who goes
Where no death can touch the rose!
