THE FOETRV OF FLOWERS. 
TRANSPLANTED FLOWERS. 
BY E. ELLIOTT. 
Ye living gems of cold and fragrant fire ! 
Die ye for ever, wjien ye die, ye flowers ? 
TaKe ye, when in your beauty ye expire, 
An everlasting farewell of your bowers ? 
No more to listen for the wooing air, 
And song-brought morn, the cloud-tinged wood 
lands o’er! 
No more to June’s soft lip your breasts to bare, 
And drink fond evening’s dewy breath no more ! 
Soon fades the sweetest, first the fairest dies, 
For frail and fair are sisters; but the heart, 
Fill’d with deep love, death’s power to kill denies. 
And sobs e’en o’er the dead, “We cannot part!’' 
Have I not seen thee, Wild Rose, in my dreams f 
Like a pure spirit—beauteous as the skies, 
When the clear blue is brighest, and the streams 
Dance down the hills, reflecting the rich dyes 
Of morning clouds, and cistus woodbine-twined— 
Didst thou not wake me from a dream of death t 
Yea, and thy voice was sweeter than the wind 
When it inhales the love-sick violet’s breath, 
Bending it down with kisses, where the bee 
Hums over golden gorse, and sunny broom, 
Soul il the R ise' What saidst thou then to me I 
