THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
Where Flattery sues to woman’s ear, 
And tells his tale again, 
And beauty smiles upon things so mean, 
We blush to call them men; 
Where ’tis sad to hear the flippant tongue 
Apply its hackneyed arts ;— 
Oh ! their heads would be the hollowesl things 
But for their hollower hearts ! 
But, hist! the reveller’s shout is stilled, 
The song, the jest forgot; 
The hair is snapped, the sword descends, 
With a dread “ Forget me not!” 
Go 1 hie thee to the rank churchyard 
Where flits the shadowy ghost, 
And see how little pride has left 
Whereon to raise a boast. 
See Beauty claiming sisterhood 
With the noisome reptile worm— 
Oh, where are all the graces fled 
That once arrayed her form ! 
Fond hope no more on her smile will feed. 
Nor wither at her frown : 
Her head will rest more quiet now 
Than when it slept on down. 
With cloven crest and bloody shroud 
The once proud warrior lies ; 
And the patriot’s heart hath not a throb 
To give to a nation’s cries. 
A solemn voice will greet thine ear 
As thou lingerest round the spot, 
And cry from out the sepulchre, 
“ Frail man, forget me not!” 
