THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 39 
TO THE PAINTED COLUMBINE. 
BY JONES VERY. 
Bright image of the early years 
When glow’d my cheek as red as thou, 
And life’s dark throng of cares and fears 
Were swift-winged shadows o’er my sunny brow ’• 
Thou blushest from the painter’s page, 
Robed in the mimic tints of art; 
But Nature’s hand in youth’s green age 
With fairer hues first traced thee on my heart. 
The morning’s blush, she made it thine, 
The morn’s sweet breath, she gave it thee; 
And in thy look, my Columbine ! 
Each fond-remember’d spot she bade me see. 
I see the hill’s fty-gazing head, 
Where gay thou noddest in the gale ; 
I hear light-bounding footsteps tread 
The grassy path that winds along the vale. 
I hear the voice of woodland song 
Break from each bush and well-known tree, 
And, on light pinions borne along, 
Hornes back the laugh from childhood’s heart of 
glee. 
