POETRY OF FLOWERS. 107 
Still plays the sparkle o’er the rippling water, 
0 lily ! whence thy cup of pearl is gone ; * 
The bright wave mourns not for its loveliest 
daughter, 
There is no sorrow in the wind’s low tone. 
And thou, meek hyacinth ! afar is roving 
The bee that oft thy trembling bells hath kiss’d. 
Cradled ye were, fair flowers ! midst all things 
loving, 
A joy to all—yet, yet, ye are not miss’d 
Ye, that were born to lend the sunbeam glad- ' 
ness 
And the winds fragrance, wandering where they 
list! 
—Oh 1 it were breathing words too deep in sad¬ 
ness. 
To say earth s huiTia/n, flowers not more aro 
miss’d. 
THE ROSE. 
Go, lovely rose! 
Tell her that wastes her time and me. 
That now she knows. 
When I resemble her to thee. 
How sweet and fair she seems to bo. 
