POOR BROKEN FLOWER.

Poor broken flower! what art can now recover thee?

Torn from the stem that fed thy rosy breath —

In vain the sunbeams seek

To warm that faded cheek;

The dews of heaven, that once like balm fell over thee;

Now are but tears, to weep thy early death.

So droops the maid whose lover hath forsaken her,—

Thrown from his arms, as lone and lost as thou;

In vain the smiles of all

Like sunbeams round her fall:

The only smile that could from death awaken her,

That smile, alas! is gone to others now.