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ON A FRIEND'S BIRTHDAY.
"Bring Flowers, young Flowers," a wreath I'l twine,
A crown for that mind-written brow of thine—
A radiant wreath—not one drooping spray
Shall dim, with ill omen, thy natal day;
Not a lurking dew-drop shall dare appear,
For, though bright and lustrous, 'tis like a tear:
And smiles must dimple each cheek to-day,
Tears, sorrow, and care shall flee far away!
But, alas, for my wreath! The transient Flowers
Have passed away with the Summer hours:
They are all, all flown, the wild and the sweet,
Their slight forms may never the cold winds meet:
All flown and faded—or one loved gem
I had sought and wreathed for thy diadem.
Not the rose—that has thorns—and I would not bring
In my simple garland so false a thing;
Did I the leaves of thy destiny twine,
No thorn should approach e'en a thought of thine.
Of the Flower I'd bring, I have often told
How brightly its petals of blue unfold,
And oft I've repeated its name, to tell
What no other words breathe half so well.
