"The lines which sin and pain had traced,

Seemed by the shadowing plant effaced,

Till, came at last, the joyful hour,

When they knew that the bud must burst its flower.

Greg slept, but still one hand caressed

The plant; the other his pale cheek pressed.

The perfumed crimson shed a glow

On the old man's hair, as white as snow;

The nurse came softly—'Look, Greg!' she said,

Ay, the rose had bloomed, but the man was dead."