THE POETRY OF FLCWERS. 
*?l 
P»c* let the pastor’s thankful eye 
T ieir faltering tale disdain, 
As on their lowly couch they lie, 
Prisoners of want and pain. 
O guide us, when our faithless hearts 
From thee would start aloof. 
Where patience her sweet skill imparts 
Beneath some cottage roof: 
Revive our dying fires to burn 
High as her anthems soar, 
And of our scholars let us learn 
Our own forgotten lore. 
COWSLIPS. 
BY MARY HOWITT. 
Nay, tell me not of Austral flowers, 
Or purple bells from Persia’s bowers. 
The cowslip of this land of ours, 
Is dearer far to me ! 
This flower in other years I knew! 
I know the field wherein it grew, 
With violets white and violets blue, 
Beneath the garden tree . 
