168
TO THE CENTURY PLANT.
Alas, fair flower! they’ve vanished from the earth,
That wronged and injured race, and none are here
Of all the friends that knew thee at thy birth,—
No longer near thee rests the wearied deer,
Thy sister flowers have faded with each year;
Still thou remainest, though they all have flown,
Like some strange being from another sphere,
Or like some aged man, sad and alone,—
May I not linger here, when those I love are gone!
That wronged and injured race, and none are here
Of all the friends that knew thee at thy birth,—
No longer near thee rests the wearied deer,
Thy sister flowers have faded with each year;
Still thou remainest, though they all have flown,
Like some strange being from another sphere,
Or like some aged man, sad and alone,—
May I not linger here, when those I love are gone!
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