THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
121 
My briar, that smelledst sweet, when gentle spring’s 
first heat 
Ran through thy quiet veins; 
Thou that couldst injure none, but wouldst be left 
alone, 
Alone thou.leavest me, and nought of thine re¬ 
mains. 
What, hath no poet’s lyre o’er thee, sweet breathing 
briar, 
Hung fondly ill or well ? 
And yet methinks with thee, a poet’s sympathy, 
Whether in weal or woe, in life or death might 
dwell. 
Not less warmly does the American poet Brainard 
sing its praise:— 
Our sweet autumnal western scented wind 
Robs of its odours none so sweet a flower, 
In all the blooming waste it left behind, 
As that the Sweetbriar yields it; and the shower 
Meets not a rose that buds in beauty’s bower 
One half so lovely; yet it grows along 
The poor girl’s pathway, by the poor man’s door. 
Such are the simple folks it dwells among; 
And humble as the bud, so humble be the song. 
THE EVENING PRIMROSE. —Inconstancy. 
Fair flower, that shunn’st the glare of day, 
Yet lov’st to open, meekly bold, 
To evening hues of sober grey, 
Thy cup of paly gold ; 
