THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
Than vainer flowers,- though sweeter far, 
The Evening Primrose shuns the day; 
Blooms only to the western star, 
And love its solitary ray. 
In Eden’s vale an aged hind 
At the dim twilight’s closing hour, 
On his time-smoothed staff reclined, 
With wonder viewed the opening flower. 
“ Ill-fated flower, at eve to blow,” 
(In pity’s simple thought he cries,) 
“ Thy bosom must not feel the glow 
Of splendid suns, or smiling skies. 
“ Nor thee the vagrants of the field, 
The hamlet’s little train behold; 
Their eyes to sweet oppression yield, 
When thine the falling shades unfold. 
“ Nor thee the hasty shepherd heeds, 
When love has filled his heart with cares: 
For flowers he rifles all the meads ; 
For waking flowers—but thine forbears. 
“ Ah ! waste no more that beauteous bloom, 
On night’s chill shade that fragrant breath 
Let smiling suns those gems illume ! 
Fair flower ! to live unseen is death !” 
Soft as the voice of vernal gales 
That o’er the bending meadows blow, 
Or streams that steal through even vales, 
And murmur that they move so slow. 
