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THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
On the upland stile embowered 
With fragrant Hawthorn, snowy flowered, 
Will sauntering sit. 
Miss Twamley soothingly writes 
Come, let ns rest this Hawthorn-tree below, 
And breathe its luscious fragrance ere it flies, 
And watch the tiny petals as they fall 
Circling and winnowing down onr sylvan hall. 
But let us conclude with Miss Taylor’s words:— 
I love the pleasant Spring, when buds begin to push, 
And flowers their nosegays bring to hang on every 
bush, 
Till stores of May, with snowy bloom, 
Fill the young hedgerows with perfume. 
HEATH.— Solitude. 
Wordsworth speaking of one abandoned to solitude 
Ho common soul. In youth by science nursed, 
And led by Mature into a wild scene 
Of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth 
A favoured being, knowing no desire 
Which genius did not hallow,—’gainst the taint 
Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and hate, 
And scorn,—against all enemies prepared, 
Ail but neglect. The world, for so it thought, 
O wed him no service ! wherefore he at once 
With indignation turned himself away, 
And with the food of pride sustained his soul 
