THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
How canst thou ever sorrow’s emblems be ? 
Rather I deem thy slight and fragile form, 
In mild endurance bending gracefully, 
Is like the wounded heart, which ’mid the storm 
Looks for the promised time which is to be, 
In pious confidence. Oh ! thou shouldst wave 
Thy branches o’er the lowly martyr’s grave. 
THE WILLOW. 
KEBLE. 
See the soft green willow springing 
Where the waters gently pass, 
Every way her free arms flinging 
O’er the moist and reedy grass; 
Long ere winter blasts are fled, 
See her tipped with vernal red, 
And her kindly flower displayed 
Ere her leaf can cast a shade. 
Though the rudest hand assail her, 
Patiently she droops awhile, 
But when showers and breezes hail her. 
Wears again her willing smile. 
Thus I learn Contentment’s power 
From the slighted willow bower— 
Ready to give thanks, and live 
On the least that Heaven may give. 
