POETEY OF FLOWERS. 
208 
And such, I exclaim’d, is the pitiless part 
Some act by the delicate mind, 
Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart 
Already to sorrow resign’d ! 
This elegant rose, had I shaken it less, 
Might have bloomed with its owner awhile; 
And the tear that is wiped with a little address 
May be followed perhaps by a smile. 
THE WINTER NOSEGAY. 
What Nature, alas ! has denied 
'fo delicate growth of our isle. 
Art has in a measure supplied, 
And Winter is deck’d with a smile. 
See, Mary, what beauties I bring 
From the shelter of that sunny shed. 
Where the flowers have the charms of the spring, 
Though abroad they are frozen and dead. 
’Tis a bower of Arcadian sweets. 
Where Flora is still in her prime, 
A fortress to which she retreats 
From the cruel assaults of the clime. 
While earth wears a mantle of snow. 
These pinks are as fresh and as gay 
As the fairest and sweetest that blow 
On the beautiful bosom of May. 
