24 
The Poetry of Flowers. 
Taken praise that should be thine, 
Little, humble Celandine ! 
Prophet of delight and mirth, 
Ill requited upon earth ; 
Herald of a mighty band, 
Of a joyous train ensuing, 
Serving at my heart's command, 
Tasks that are no tasks renewing ; 
I will sing, as doth behove, 
Hymns in praise of what I love! 
THE IVY, 
BARTON, 
Hast thou seen, in winter’s stormiest day, 
The trunk of a blighted oak, 
Not dead, but sinking in slow decay 
Beneath Time’s resistless stroke, 
Round which a luxuriant Ivy had grown, 
And wreathed it with verdure no longer its own? 
Perchance thou hast seen this sight, and then, 
As I at thy years might do, 
Passed carelessly by, nor turned again 
That scathed wreck to view ; 
But now I can draw from that mouldering tree 
Thoughts which are soothing and dear to me. 
Oh ! smile not, nor think it a worthless thing, 
If it be with instruction fraught ; 
That which will closest and longest cling, 
Is alone worth a serious thought. 
Should aught be unlovely, which thus can shed 
Grace on the dying, and leaves on the dead ? 
