Floral Poetry. 
I 2 I 
HOLLY. 
A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 
HE Rose it is the love of June, 
* The Violet that of Spring, 
But all those faithless fading flowers, 
That take the south-wind’s wing, 
As craven blooms I hold in scorn, 
The Holly’s the wreath for a Christmas morn ! 
Its berries are red as a maiden’s lip, 
Its leaves are of changeless green, 
And anything changeless now, I wis, 
Is somewhat rare to be seen!— 
The Holly which fall and frost has borne, 
The Holly’s the wreath for a Christmas morn ! 
Its edges are set in keen array; 
They are fairy weapons, bared; 
And, in an unlucky world like ours, 
’Tis well to be prepared. 
Like helm on crest of warrior borne, 
The Holly’s the wreath for a Christmas morn ! 
The Holly it is no green-house plant, 
But grows in the common air ; 
In the peasant’s lattice, the castle hall, 
Its green leaves alike are there. 
Its lesson should in mind be borne— 
The Holly’s the wreath for a Christmas morn ! 
Anon. 
Q 
