244 THE POESY OF FLOWERS. 



Thy snowy circle, rayed 



With crosslets, bends its pearly whiteness round, 

 And how thy spreading lips are trimly bound 



With such a mellow shade, 



As in the vaulted blue, 



Deepens at starry midnight, or grows pale, 

 When mantled in the full-moon's slender veil, 



That calm ethereal hue. 



I love thee, modest flower! 

 And I do find it happiness to tread, 

 With careful steps, along thy studded bed, 



At morning's freshest hour; 



Or, when the day declines, 

 And evening comes with dewy footsteps on, 

 And now his golden hall of slumber won, 



The setting sun resigns 



His empire of the sky, 



And the cool breeze awakes her fluttering train; 

 I walk through thy parterres, and not in vain, 



For to my downward eye, 



Sweet flower! thou tellest how hearts 

 As pure and tender as thy leaf, as low 

 And humble as thy stem, will surely know 



The joy that peace imparts 



Pei cital. 



