POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
53 
The bard of night, the angel of the spring. 
O’er the wild minstrels of the grove supreme, 
Near his betrothed flower expands his wing ; 
Wake, lovely rose, awake, and hear thy poet sing! 
The night is past; wake—queen of every flower! 
Breathing the soul of spring in thy perfume; 
The pearls of morning are thy wedding dower, 
Thy bridal garment is a robe of bloom! 
Wake, lovely flower! for now the winter’s gloom 
Hath wept itself in April showers away ; 
Wake, lovely flower; and bid thy smiles assume 
A kindred brightness with the rosy ray, 
That streaks the floating clouds with the young 
blush of day. 
Anon. 
THE EVENING PRIMROSE. 
Than vainer flowers though sweeter far, 
The evening primrose shuns the day; 
Blooms only to the western star, 
And loves its solitary ray. 
In Eden’s vale an aged hind, 
At the dim twilight’s closing hour, 
On his time-smoothed staff reclined, 
With wonder view’d the opening flower. 
