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POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
THE MOSS ROSE. 
The Angel of the flowers one day, 
Beneath a rose-tree sleeping lay ; 
That spirit to whom charge is given 
To bathe young buds in dews of Heaven; 
Awaking from his light repose, 
The angel whispered to the rose ;— 
“ Oh, fondest object of my care. 
Still fairest found where all is fair ; 
For the sweet shade thou giv’st to me. 
Ask what thou wilt, ’tis granted thee !” 
“Then,” said the rose, with deepen’d glow, 
“ On me another grace bestow.” 
The spirit paused in silent thought :— 
What grace was there the flower had not?— 
'Twas but a moment—o’er the rose 
A veil of moss the angel throws; 
And robed in Natui-e’s simplest weed. 
Could there a flower that rose exceed ? 
TO THE DAISY. 
Sweet simple flower, though lost to fame. 
And scorn’d by every thoughtless wight ; 
How proud the orb which gave thy name— 
That splendid orb which yields us light ! 
