38 THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWEItH. 
I— ris, to thee, the maid of the bow 
That promises hope her name has given ; 
Join then the wreath at her feet we throw, 
Who beams as a symbol of hope from 
Heaven, 
A — nemone, flower of the wind, is the last 
We cull, and our garland 'is now complete; 
Gentle the current, and soft be the blast, 
Which Yictobia the queen of the ocean 
shall meet. 
LINES ON FLOWERS. 
BY' PATTERSON. 
Flowers are the brightest things whi ch earth 
On her broad bosom loves to cherish ; 
Gay they appear as children’s mirth, 
Like fading dreams of hope they perish. 
In every clime, in every age, 
Mankind have felt their pleasing sway, j 
And lays to them have deck’d the page 
Of moralist — and minstrel gay. 
