POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
164 
But dearest to me is the pale lonely Rose, 
Whose blossoms in Winter’s dark season unclose 
Which smile in the rigour of Winter’s stern blast, 
And smooth the rough present by sighs of the 
pash 
And thus, when around us affliction’s dark power 
Eclipses the sunshine of life’s flowing hour, 
While drooping, deserted, in sorrow we bend, 
0! sweet is the presence of one faithful friend. 
The crowds that smiled on us when gladness was 
ours, 
Are Summer’s bright blossom which Autumn de¬ 
vours ; 
But the friend on whose breast we in sorrow re¬ 
pose. 
That friend is the Winter’s lone, beautiful rose. 
THE VOICE OF THE FLOWERS. 
Blossoms that lowly bend. 
Shutting your leaves from evening’s chilly dew. 
While your rich odours heavily ascend. 
The flitting winds to woo. 
I walk at silent eve. 
When scarce a breath is in the garden bower.g, 
And many a vision and wild fancy weave, 
Midst you, ye lovely flowers : 
