OR, LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 247 
I will not bear one leaf away, 
Though I love its fragrant shade. 
Rather in soft Italia’s strand, 
Where Tiber’s waters flow, 
Still let it crown the Cyprian band, 
Or deck the wanton brow. 
The Paphian Queen’s unhallowed shrine 
May still the myrtle wear; 
The Grecian Helen well might twine 
The blossoms in her hair. 
Be mine the flowers that blush unseen 
Down in the vale below: 
The primrose peeping from between 
The blue bells where they grow. 
Give me the snow-drop, fair and bright, 
Chaste as the morning dew ; 
Give me the flower that shuns the light, 
The violet, white or blue. 
These be the floral gems I seek, 
I ask no other aid, 
The purest emblems of a meek, 
A soft retiring maid. 
Then, lady, keep thy myrtle spray 
To grace some other brow; 
I will not bear one leaf away 
To meet a lover’s vow. 
