214 FAREWELL TO THE FLOWERS IN AUTUMN.
Pale, pale wax-berry, all is gone, I would it were not so, Methinks the woodbine near thee hatb felt a lighter woe ; Lean, lean upon its sheltering arm, thy latest pang to
take, And yield to winter's stormy will, till happier seasons
wake.
��Coarse marigold, in days of yore I scorn 'd thy tawny face, But, since my plants are frail and few, I've given thee
welcome place ; Tall London-pride ! my little son from weeds hath cleared
thy stem, And, for his sake, I sigh to see thy fallen diadem.
I have no stately dahlias, nor greenhouse flowers to weep, But I pass'd the rich man's garden, and the mourning
there was deep, For the crownless queens all drooping hung amid the
wasted sod, Like Boadicea, bent with shame, beneath the Roman rod.
Tis hard to say farewell, my plants, 'tis hard to say fare- well,
The florist might despise ye, yet your worth I cannot tell, For, at rising sun, or eventide, in sorrow, or in glee, Your fragrant lips have ever op'd to speak good words
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