POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
G4 
They wreathe the harp at banquets tried, 
With them we crown the crested brave: 
They deck the maid — adorn the bride— 
Or form the chaplets for her grave. 
Paterson. 
TO A WILD FLOWER. 
In what delightful land, 
Sweet-scented flower, didst thou attain thy birth ? 
Thou art no offspring of the common earth, 
By common breezes fann’d! 
Full oft my gladden’d eye, 
In pleasant glade, or river’s marge has traced 
(As if there planted by the hand of taste,) 
Sweet flowers of every dye. 
But never did I see, 
In mead or mountain, or domestic bower, 
’Mong many a lovely and delicious flower, 
One half so fair as thee. 
Thy beauty makes rejoice 
My inmost heart—I know not how 'tis so,— 
Quick-coming fancies thou dost make me know, 
For fragrance is thy voice. 
And stiff it comes to me, 
In quiet night, and turmoil of the day, 
Like memory of friends gone far away, 
Or, haply, ceased to be. 
