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THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
Moss, that covers dateless tombs; 
Liud with early sweet that blooms; 
Childhood thus, in happy rest, 
Lies on ancient Wisdom’s breast. 
Moss and Rose, and Age and Youth, 
Flush and Verdure, Hope and Truth, 
Yours be peace that knows not strifa. 
One the root and one the life. 
THE HYACINTH. 
BY CASIMIR. 
Child of the Spring, thou charming flower, 
No longer in confinement lie, 
Arise to light, thy form discover, 
Rival the azure of the sky. 
The rains are gone, the storms are o’er; 
Winter retires to make thee way; 
Come then, thousw-eetly blooming flower. 
Come, lovely stranger, come away. 
The sun is dress’d in beaming smiles. 
To give thy beauties to the day : 
Young zephyrs wait with gentlest galea, 
To fan thy bosom as they play. 
