THE POETRY J? F; OWERS. 
In truth, have never pass’d away: 
Tis we, ’tis ours, are changed ! not they. 
I'or love, and beauty, and delight, 
I here is no death nor change ; their might 
Lxceeds our organs, which endure 
No light, being themselves obscure. 
TO A BUNCH OF FLOWERS. 
BY. REV. JAMES F. CLARKE. 
Little firstlings of the year ! 
Have you come my room to cheer? 
You are dry and parched, I think ; 
Stand within this glass and drink ; 
Stand beside me on the table, 
’Mong my books—if I am able, 
I will find a vacant space 
For your bashfulness and grace; 
Learned tasks and serious duty 
Shall be lightened by your beauty. 
Pure affection’s sweetest token, 
Choicest hint of love unspoken, 
Friendship in your help rejoices, 
Ottering her mysterious voices. 
You are gifts the poor may offer— 
Wealth can find no better proffer: 
tor you tell of tastes refined, 
Thoughtful heart and spirit kind. 
3 
