THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
THE EVENING- PRIMROSE. 
BY G. LANGHORNE. 
There are that love the shades of life, 
And shun the splendid walks of fame 
There are that hold it rueful strife 
To risk Ambition’s losing game ; 
That far from envy’s lurid eye 
The fairest fruits of genius rear, 
Content to see them bloom and die 
In friendship’s small but kindly sphere. 
Than vainer flowers, though sweeter far, 
The Evening Primrose shuns the day; 
Blooms only to the western star, 
And loves its solitary ray. 
In Eden’s vale an aged hind, 
At the dim’s twilight’s closing hour, 
On his time-smoothed staff reclined, 
With wonder view’d the opening flowaR 
“ Ill-fated flower, at eve to blow,” 
(In pity’s simple thought he cries,) 
“ Thy bosom must not feel the glow 
Of splendid suns, or smiling skies. 
