POETRY OP FLOWERS. 
They flourish freshly, though beneath 
Lie the dark dust and creeping worm. 
They speak of Hope, they speak of Faith; 
They smile, like rainbows thro’ the storm. 
Pluck not the flowers—the sacred flowers ! 
Go where the garden’s treasures spread' 
* here strange bright blossoms deck the bowers 
And spicy trees their odours shed. 
There pluck, if thou delight’st, indeed, 
To shorten life so brief as theirs, 
Put here the admonition heed_ 
A blessing on the hand that spares! 
Pluck not the flowers! In days gone by 
A beautiful belief was felt, ’ 
That fairy spirits of the sky ’ 
Amidst the trembling blossoms dwelt. 
Perhaps the dead have many a guest, 
Holier than any that are ours; 
Perhaps their guardian angels rest 
Fnshrined amidst _the gentle flowers. 
■ Hast thou no loved one lying low, 
No broken reed of earthly trust’? 
Hast thou not felt the bitter woe 
With which we render dust to dust ? 
Thou hast! and in one cherished spot, 
ynseen, unknown to earthly eyes 
Within their heart, the unforgot 
Entombed in silent beauty lies. 
