16
VOICE OF FLOWERS.
Then, as the ebbing pulse declin'd,
Forth from her sacred nook,
With swimming eye, and trembling hand,
Her bridal wreath she took,
And bound its wither'd floral bells
Around her temples pale,
And faintly to her maidens spake—
For breath began to fail:—
"Should the last death-pang shake me sore,
(For on they come with power,)
Press closer in my ice-cold hand
My husband's token-flower;
And rear the turf-mound broad and high
To span my lonely grave,
That nought may sever from my locks
The gift of love he gave—
So, when the dance of souls goes forth
Athwart the starry plain,
He 'll know me by his chosen flower,
And I 'll be his again."
