When flow'rs o'er which the sun-light plays,
In summer's bright, and glorious days,
Have left each stem which bore their bloom,
And made the earth they grac'd,-their tomb;-
When the warm breeze, which hovers now
To catch their breath, and float it on,
Shall sound in murmers wild, and low,
A requiem to their beauty gone,
Or sweep, with loud, funereal cry,
Beneath the cold, and darken'd sky;-

Then Lady ! to the chilling air,
The flow'r I send its grace shall give;
Unfold its blossoms, freshly fair,
And in young, rich luxuriance live,
Like some true heart, whose love is found
Most faithful in the stormiest hour,
And, when misfortunes gather round,
Shines out with purest,-gentlest, pow'r-
Cheering the gloom of sorrow's night,
With its warm glow, and changeless light!