IS 
POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
Yet slight thy form and low thy seat, 
And earthward hent thy gentle eye, 
Unapt the passing view to meet, . 
When loftier llowers are flaunting nigh. 
Oft, in the sunless April day, 
Thy early smile has stayed my walk, 
But midst the gorgeous blooms of May, 
I passed thee on thy humble stalk. 
So they, who climb to wealth, forget 
The friends in darker fortunes tried. 
I copied them—hut I regret 
That I should ape the ways of pride. 
And when again the genial hour 
Awakes the painted tribes of light, 
I’ll not o’erlook the modest flower 
That made the woods of April bright. 
Bryant. 
TO A FLOWER. 
The blighting hand of winter 
Has laid thy glories low ; 
Oh, where is all thy beauty ? 
Where is thy freshness now ? 
Summer has pass’d away, 
With every smiling scene, 
