Floral Poetry. 
THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 
OW happily, how happily the flowers die away, 
Oh ! could we but return to earth as easily as they ; 
W Just live a life of sunshine, of innocence and bloom, 
Then drop without decrepitude or pain into the tomb. 
The gay and glorious creatures ! they neither “ toil nor spin,” 
Yet, lo ! what goodly raiment they’re all apparelled in ; 
No tears are on their beauty, but dewy gems more bright 
Than ever brow of Eastern queen endiademed with light. 
The young rejoicing creatures ! their pleasures never pall, 
Nor lose in sweet contentment, because so free to all ; 
The dew, the showers, the sunshine, the balmy blessed air, 
Spend nothing of their freshness, though all may freely share. 
The happy, careless creatures ! of time they take no heed, 
Nor weary of his creeping, nor tremble at his speed ; 
Nor sigh with sick impatience, and wish the light away, 
Nor when tis gone, cry dolefully, “ Would God that it were day ! ” 
And when their lives are over, they drop away to rest, 
Unconscious of the penal doom on holy nature’s breast; 
No- pain have they in dying — no shrinking from decay, 
Oh ! could we but return to earth as easily as they ! 
C. Bowles. 
