25 THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
THE SNOWDROP. 
MRS. HOWITT. 
The snowdrop ! ’Tis an English flower, 
And grows beneath our garden trees; 
For every heart it has a dower, 
And old and dear remembrances ! 
All look upon it, and straightway 
Recall their youth like yesterday, 
Their sunny years when forth they went, 
Wandering in measureless content; 
Their little plot of garden ground, 
The mossy orchard’s quiet bound; 
Their father’s house so free from care, 
And the familiar faces there; 
The household voices kind and sweet, 
That knew no feigning—hushed and gone ! 
The mother that was sure to greet 
Their coming with a welcome tone; 
The brothers that were children then, 
Now anxious, toiling, thoughtful men; 
And the kind sister whose glad mirth 
Was like a sunshine on the earth— 
These come back to the soul supine, 
Flower of the spring, at look of thine: 
And thou among the dimmed and gone, 
Art an unaltered thing alone ! 
Unchanged—unchanged—the very flower 
That grew in Eden droopingly— 
And now beside the peasant’s door ' 
Awakes his little children’s glee, 
Even as it filled his heart with joy 
Beside his mother’s door, a boy !— 
