The Poetry of Flowers. 
29 
Soon fades the sweetest; first the fairest dies, 
For frail and fair are sisters ; but the heart, 
Filled with deep love, Death’s power to kill denies, 
And sobs e'en o’er the dead, “ We cannot part!" 
Have I not seen thee, Wild Rose, in my dreams? 
Like a pure spirit—beauteous as the skies, 
When the clear blue is brightest, and the streams 
Dance down the hills, reflecting the rich dyes 
Of morning clouds, and cistus woodbine-twined— 
Didst thou not wake me from a dream of death ? 
Yea, and thy voice was sweeter than the wind 
When it inhales the love-sick Violet’s breath, 
Bending it down with kisses, where the bee 
Hums over golden gorse and sunny broom. 
Soul of the Rose ! what said’st thou then to me ? 
“We meet,” thou said’st, “though severed by the 
tomb : 
Lo, brother, this is heav’n ! and thus the just shall 
bloom.” 
TO THE BRAMBLE FLOWER. 
BY E. ELLIOTT. 
Thy fruit full well the schoolboy knows, 
Wild Bramble of the brake 1 
So, put thou forth thy small white rose ; 
I love it for his sake. 
Though Woodbines flaunt and Roses glow 
O’er all the fragrant bowers, 
Thou need’st not be ashamed to show 
Thy satin-threaded flowers ; 
