THE F0ETRT OF FLOWERS. 57 
FLOWERS FOR THE HEART. 
BY E. ELLIOTT. 
Flowers ! winter flowers ‘ —the child is dead. 
The mother cannot speak: 
O softly couch his little head, 
Or Mary’s heart will break ! 
Amid those curls of flaxen hair 
This pale pink riband twine, 
And on the little bosom there 
Place this wan lock of mine. 
How like a form in cold white stone, 
The coffin’d infant lies! 
Look, Mother, on thy little one ! 
And tears will fill thine eyes. 
She cannot weep, more faint she growa^ 
More deadly pale and still: 
Flowers ! oh, a flower! a winter rose, 
That tiny hand to fill. 
Go, search the fields ! the lichen wet 
Bends o’er th’ unfailing well; 
Beneath the furrow lingers yet 
The scarlst pimpernel. 
