Clary was
sleeping, and the physician thought it better that she should not be
disturbed.
The room allotted to Miss Whitmore's use was the one which had been
occupied by Anthony. Everything served to remind her of its late tenant.
His books, his papers, his flute, were there. Her own portfolio,
containing the little poems he so much admired, was lying upon the
table, and within it lay a bunch of dried flowers--wild flowers--which
she had gathered for him upon the heath near his uncle's park; but what
paper is that attached to the faded nosegay? It is a copy of verses. She
knows his handwriting, and trembles as she reads--
Ye are wither'd, sweet buds, but love's hand can portray
On memory's tablets each delicate hue;
And recall to my bosom the long happy day
When she gathered ye, fresh sprinkled over with dew.
Ah, never did garland so lovely appear,
For her warm lip had breathed on each beautiful flower;
And the pearl on each leaf was less bright than the tear
That gleamed in her eyes in that rapturous hour.
Ye are wither'd, sweet buds, but in memory ye bloom,
Nor can nature's stern edict your loveliness stain;
Ye are fadeless and rich in undying perfume,
And your sweetness, like truth, shall unaltered remain.
When this fond beating heart shall be cold in the grave,
Oh, mock not my bier with fame's glittering wreath;
But bid on my temples these wither'd buds wave,
Through life fondly cherish'd, and treasured in death.
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