124 
POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
But ere the day had died away, 
I saw no more the beauteous gem: 
Yet it had promis’d fair to view, 
For ’midst the storms its beauties grew; 
It was the earliest flower of spring, 
The first of all its blossoming. 
But now untimely nipt it lies, 
Its every promise lost for ever; 
And all the dew-drops from the skies 
May fall—but can revive it never. 
Thus have I seen a flower as fair, 
A doating parent’s only joy, 
Bud forth when storms were beating there, 
And wither in a milder sky. 
She withered—but unlike the flower, 
Which hears no more the voice of spring, 
And never decks again the bower 
Which saw its early blossoming. 
For when on earth she fades and dies, 
She blooms afresh in paradise : 
A bud transplanted from our soil, 
To live, beside those living streams, 
Which ever and for ever smile 
Beneath those uncreated beams—«' 
Whose blessed light and ceaseless ray 
Make heaven’s eternal summers day. 
