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PHE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
Of yawning gulfs, o’er which the headlong plunge 
Is to eternity, looks shuddering up, 
And marks ye in your placid loveliness— 
Fearless, yet frail—and, clasping his chill hands, 
Blesses your pencill’d beauty. ’Mid the pomp 
Of mountain summits rushing on the sky, 
And chaining the rapt soul in breathless awe, 
He bows to bind you drooping to his breast, 
Inhales your spirit from the frost-wing’d gale 
And freer dreams of heaven. 
-«- 
THE MISTLETOE. 
BY BARRY CORNWALL, 
When winter nights grow long, 
And winds without blow cold, 
We sit in a ring round the warm wood-fire, 
And listen to stories old ! 
And we try to look grave (as maids should be,) 
When the men bring in boughs of the laurel-tree 
0. the Laurel, the evergreen tree ! 
The Poets have laurels—and why not we ? 
How pleasant, when night falls down, 
And hides the wintry sun, 
To see them come in to the blazing fire, 
.And know that their work is done ; 
