212 
rOETEY OF FLOWERS. 
In whose cerulean hue, 
Heaven’s own blest tint we view, 
On days serene and mild ; 
How beauteous like an azure gem. 
She droopeth from her graceful stem ! 
The foxglove’s purple bell. 
On bank and upland plain; 
The scarlet pimpernel, 
And daisy in the dell, 
That kindly blooms again. 
When all her sisters of the spring 
On earth’s cold lap are withering; 
The bind-weed pure and pale, 
That sues to all for aid. 
And when rude storms assail 
Her snowy virgin veil. 
Doth like some timid maid, 
In conscious weakness most secure. 
Unscathed its sternest shocks endure. 
How fair her pendent wreath 
O’er bush and brake is twining! 
While meekly there beneath, 
’Mid fern and blossomed heath. 
Her lowlier sister’s shining ; 
Tinged with the blended hues that streak 
A slumbering infant’s tender cheek. 
