THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
Cl 
There may be gaudier on the bower, 
And statelier on the tree; 
But wall-flower, loved wall-flower, 
Thou art the flower for me ! 
- 4 - 
THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. 
BY T. MOORE. 
'Tis the last rose of summer 
Left blooming alone, 
All her lovely companions 
Are faded and gone ; 
No flower of her kindred, 
No rose-bud is nigh, 
To reflect back her blushes 
And give sigh for sigh. 
I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one 
To pine on the stem ; 
Since the lovely are sleeping, 
Go sleep thou with them. 
Thus kindly I scatter 
Thy leaves on the bed, 
Where thy mates of the garden 
Lie scentless and dead. 
So soon may I iollow 
When friendships decay, 
And from love’s shining circl« 
The gems drop away : 
