POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
57 
When its colours, as they fly, 
Show the worth of beauty! 
Children, newly born of earth, 
Ye who should seem given, 
In your young unconscious worth, 
As promises from heaven ! 
Buy, oh buy my flowerets sweet, 
With your freshness vying, 
To your souls the moral meet, 
They contain, applying. 
Life is pleasant, little one, 
B.ut each fond desire, 
With its thorns, is overrun, 
Like the scented briar. 
And sweet at eve the faded rose, 
With dew upon it sleeping, 
But sweeter far in death are those 
Whom virtue’s self is weeping. 
E. Stewart. 
TIIE SNOWDROP. 
Oh the pretty snowdrop, 
It grows down in the vale, 
Though still it whistles round us, 
Winter’s biting gale: 
