THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
In Eastern lands they talk in flowers, 
And tell in a garland their loves and cares ; 
Each blossom that blooms in their garden bowers, 
On its leaves a mystic language bears. 
The rose is a sign of joy and love, 
Young blushing love in its earliest dawn ; 
And the mildness that suits the gentle dove, 
From the myrtle’s snowy flower is drawn. 
Innocence shines in the lily’s bell, 
Pure as a heart in its native heaven ; 
Fame’s bright star, and glory’s swell, 
By the glossy leaf of the bay are given. 
The silent, soft, and humble heart 
In the violet’s hidden sweetness breathes j 
And the tender soul that cannot part, 
A twine of evergreen fondly wreathes. 
The cypress that darkly shades the grave, 
Is sorrow that mourns her bitter lot ; 
And faith that a thousand ills can brave, 
Speaks in thy blue leaves, forget-me-not. 
Then gather a wreath from the garden bowers, 
And tell the wish of thy heart in flowers. 
PERCIVAL. 
(8T) 
