7 HE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
Thou shalt be sorrow’s love and mine. 
The violet and the eglantine 
With spring are banished ; 
In summer’s beam the roses shine; 
But I of thee my wreath will twine, 
When these are vanished. 
THE HAREBELL. 
CAROLINE SYMONDS. 
In Spring’s green lap there blooms a flower 
Whose cup imbibes each vernal shower, 
That sips fresh Nature’s balmy dew, 
Clad in her sweetest, purest blue; 
Yet shines the ruddy eye of morning, 
The shaggy wood’s brown shade adorning. 
Simplest floweret! Child of May ! 
Though hid from the broad eye of day, 
Doomed in the shade thy sweets to shed, 
Unnoticed droop thy languid head : 
Still Nature’s darling thou’lt remain; 
She feeds thee with her softest rain ; 
Fills each sweet bud with honied tears. 
With genial gales thy bosom cheers. 
Oh ! then, unfold thy simple charms. 
In yon deep thicket’s sheltering arms 
Far from the fierce and sultry glare, 
No heedless hand shall harm thee there; 
Still, then, avoid the gaudy scene, 
The flaunting sun, the embroidered green, 
And bloom and fade with chaste reserve, unseen. 
