Floral Poetry. 
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Where’er I find thee, gentle flower, 
Thou still art sweet and dear to me; 
For I have known the cheerless hour, 
Have seen the sunbeams cold and pale, 
Have felt the chilling wintry gale, 
And wept and shrunk like thee ! 
Mary Robinson. 
TO THE ROUND-LEAFED SUNDEW. 
B Y the lone fountain’s secret bed, 
Where human footsteps rarely tread, 
’Mid the wild moor of silent glen, 
The Sundew blooms unseen by men ; 
Spreads there her leaf of rosy hue, 
A chalice for the morning dew, 
And, ere the Summer’s sun can rise, 
Drinks the pure waters of the skies. 
Would’st thou that thy lot were given 
Thus to receive the dews of heaven, 
With heart prepared, like this meek flower ? 
Come, then, and hail the dawning hour ; 
So shall a blessing from on high, 
Pure as the rain of Summer’s sky, 
Unsullied as the morning dew, 
Descend, and all thy soul imbue. 
Yes! like the blossoms of the waste 
Would we the sky-born waters taste, 
To the High Fountain’s sacred spring 
The chalice let us humbly bring : 
So shall we find the streams of heaven 
To him who seeks are freely given ; 
The morning and the evening dew 
Shall still our failing strength renew. 
Anon. 
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