POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
201 
Of all the beautiful things said about this 
most beautiful of Flora’s children, the most 
delicate and the most apposite appears to us to be 
“ The Dying Rose-bud’s Lament,” by the late 
Mrs. Osgood. 
“ Ah, me ! ah, woe is me ! 
That I should perish now, 
With the dear sunlight just let in, 
Upon my balmy brow. 
“ My leaves, instinct with glowing life, 
Were quivering to unclose; 
My happy heart with love was rife— 
I was almost a rose. 
“Nerved by a hope, rich, warm, intense, 
Already I had risen 
Above my cage’s curving fence, 
My green and graceful prison. 
“My pouting lips, by Zephyr pressed, 
Were just prepared to part, 
And whispered to the wooing wind 
The rapture of my heart. 
“ In new-born fancies revelling, 
My mossy cell half-riven, 
Each thrilling leaflet seemed a wing 
To bear me into heaven. 
