100 
POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
That whisper, when young Passion grieves 
For one beloved afar, and weaves 
His dream of hopes and fears— 
Forget-me-not. 
There is a modest little flower, 
To friendship ever dear, 
Oh ! plant it on my humble bed, 
And strew it o’er my bier. 
Let not the dull sepulchral Yew 
Its sombre branches wave, 
But let that little fragile flower 
Alone grow on my grave. 
No sculptured marble e’er shall show 
My long and lowly hoine, 
That little modest, humble flower 
Shall mark my silent tomb. 
Then shall my grave by this be known, 
A little smiling spot, 
A mound thick-covered with the flower 
That says, “ Forget-me-not.” 
THE WOODPJTFF. 
Amid a thousand brighter flowers, 
We scarcely note thy tender bloom, 
When Summer’s heat, and Spring-time’s showers, 
Have called thee from thy winter tomb. 
