THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
165 
Are rays of a moment—are dying when boin; 
And pleasure’s best dower 
Is nought but a flower, 
A vanishing dew-drop—a gem of the morn. 
The bright eye is clouded, 
Its brilliancy shrouded, 
Our strength disappears, we are helpless and lone 
No reason avails us, 
And intellect fails us; 
Life’s spirit is wasted, and darkness cornea on. 
TO THE SNO W-D R 0 P . 
BY BARRY CORNWALL. 
Pretty firstling of the year ! 
Herald of the host of flowers, 
Hast thou left my cavern drear, 
In the hope of summer hours ? 
Back unto my earthen bowers ! 
Back to thy warm world below, 
Till the strength of suns and showers 
Quell the now relentless snow ! 
Art still here ?—Alive ? and blithe ? 
Though the stormy night hath fled, 
And tl e Frost hath pass’d his scythe 
O’er .hy small unshelter’d head» 
