Floral Poetry. 
49 
FLOWERS FOR THE HEART. 
YALOWERS ! winter flowers !—the child is dead, 
t r 
k‘ The mother cannot speak; 
Oh, softly couch his little head, 
Or Marv’s heart will break ! 
Amid those curls of flaxen hair 
This pale pink riband twine, 
And on the little bosom there 
Place this wan lock of mine. 
How like a form in cold white stone, 
The coffined infant lies! 
Look, mother, on thy little one, 
And tears will fill thine eyes. 
She cannot weep, more faint she grows, 
More deadly pale and still; 
Flowers ! oh, a flower ! a Winter Rose, 
That tiny hand to fill. 
Go, search the fields ! the lichen wet 
Bends o’er th’ unfailing well; 
Beneath the furrow lingers yet 
The scarlet Pimpernel. 
Peeps not a Snowdrop in the bower, 
Where never froze the spring? 
A Daisy? ah! bring childhood’s flower! 
The half-blown Daisy bring ! 
Yes, lay the Daisy’s little head 
Beside the little cheek; 
Oh, haste ! the last of five is dead! 
The childless cannot speak ! 
E. Elliott. 
G 
