80 VOICE OF FLOWERS. 



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 man 

 tel-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 ty 

 rant 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 ? 



