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Alas, my brave Crysanthemum, how crisp thou art, and sere;
Thou wert, perchance, too lightly prized, when gaudier friends were near;
Yet, like a hero didst thou rise, to meet the spoiler's dart,
And battle, till the pure life-blood ran curdling round thy heart.

My poor Sweet-Pea, my constant friend, whene'er I sought in vain
To twine a full bouquet for one who pressed the couch of pain;
Or when my garden sometimes failed my mantel-piece to dress,
Thou always gav'st a hoarded gem, to help me in distress.

But thou, dear lonely Pansy, thus smiling in my path,
I marvel much how thou hast scap'd the tyrant's deadly wrath;
Didst thou hide beneath thy neighbor's robe, so flaunting and so fine,
To bid one sad good-morning more, and press thy lips to mine?