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The Poetry of Flowers. 
She is leaving the home of her childhood’s mirth, 
She hath bid farewell to her father’s hearth ; 
Her place is now by another’s side— 
Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young bride. 
Bring flowers, pale flowers, o’er the bier to shed, 
A crown for the brow of the early dead ! 
For this through its leaves hath the Wild Rose burst, 
For this in the woods was the Violet nursed ! 
Though they smile in vain for what once was ours, 
They are love’s last gift—bring ye flowers, pale 
flowers ! 
Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel in prayer, 
They are Nature’s offering, their place is there ! 
They speak of hope to the fainting heart, 
With a voice of promise they come and part, 
They sleep in dust in the wintry hours, 
They break forth in glory—bring flowers, bright 
flowers 1 
TRANSPLANTED FLOWERS. 
BY E. ELLIOTT. 
Ye living gems of cold and fragrant fire ! 
Die ye for ever, when 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 woodlands 
o’er ! 
No more to June’s soft lip your breasts to bare, 
And drink fond evening’s dewy breath no more I 
