THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
105 
Dark in the rising tide the berries grew, 
And white no longer, took a sable hue; 
Bat brighter crimson springing from the root, 
Shot through the black, and purpled all the fruit. 
Ovid. 
TO BLOSSOMS. 
Pair pledges of a fruitful tree, 
Why do ye fall so fast P 
Your date is not so past, 
But you may stay yet here awhile 
To blush and gently smile, 
And go at last. 
What, were you born to be, 
An hour or half’s delight, 
And so to bid good-night ? 
’Twas pity Nature brought ye forth, 
Merely to show your worth 
And lose you quite. 
But you are lovely leaves, where we 
May read, how soon things have 
Their end, though ne’er so brave: 
And after they have shown their pride, 
Like you, awhile, they glide 
Into the grave. 
Herrick. 
A BROKEN STRAW.— Rupture. Dissension. 
Alas—how light a cause may move 
Dissension between hearts that love !— 
Hearts that the world in vain had tried, 
And sorrow but more closely tied; 
That stood the storm when waves were rough,— 
42. afr Jfe Jfe Ale 
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