70 
THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
It is this that enthrals me : and thon unto me 
Art the embryo only, of what thou shalt be; 
For thy mortal shall die, but the beauty I love 
Hath an endless existence and progress above ! 
BALSAM. 
(Impatience,) 
I cannot, will not longer brook 
Thy cold delay, thy prudent look. 
Dost love me? Share at once my fate, 
Be it or bright or desolate. 
I will abide no half-way love, 
Nor wait for prudence ere I move ; 
One more repulse, and I depart! 
Come now, or never, to my heart. 
BLUE BELL. 
(Constancy.) 
They bid me forget him! as if I could tear 
From my heart the dear image so long cherished there; 
Like a rose in the wilderness, blooming and free, 
Like a rose in the desert, that love is to me. 
