POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
77 
Alas ! it is thus, nought is permanent here ; 
Each joy brings its price, the fast following tear; 
And the smile that is lighting our features to-day, 
Ere to-morrow may pass into darkness away. 
Yet Eoses may wither, and pleasures mayfly, 
But somewhat there is, that can fade not, nor die ; 
And like a sweet perfume, that doth not depart, 
Are the feelings that change not, within the deep 
heart. M. 
ROUSSEAU AND THE WILD FLOWER. 
When known to fame, hut not to peace, 
Alone, unfriended, worn with care, 
Th’ enthusiast bade his wanderings cease, 
And breath’d once more his native air, 
An d hail’d again the tranquil scene 
Where once he roved with heart serene. 
The plant that bloom’d along the shore, 
Where there in happier hours he strayed, 
Still flourish’d gaily as before, 
In all its azure charms array’d ; 
There still it shone in modest pride, 
While all his flowers of joy had died. 
It seem’d to say, “ Hadst thou, like me, 
Contented bloomed within the bed 
