94 
THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
Winged from the maiden fancy, and fly off 
In music to the skies, and there are lost, 
These ever-steaming odors seek the sun, 
And fade in the light he scatters.” 
We close in the grateful words of Langhorne : — 
“ That lavish hand 
Which scatters violets under every thorn, 
Forbids that sweets like these should be confined 
Within the limits of the rich man’s wall.” 
