The Poetry of Flowers. 
67 
Tear the garb, the spirit flies, 
And the heart, unsheltered, dies ; 
Kill within the nursling flower, 
Scarce the green survives an hour. 
Ever thus together live, 
And to man a lesson give : 
Moss, the work of vanished years ; 
Rose, that but to-day appears. 
Moss, that covers dateless tombs ; 
Bud with early sweet that blooms ; 
Childhood thus, in happy rest, 
Lies on ancient Wisdom’s breast. 
Moss and Rose, and Age and Youth, 
Flush and'Verdure, Hope and Truth, 
Yours be peace that knows not strife, 
One the root and one the life. 
THE HYACINTH. 
BY CASIMIR. 
Child of the Spring, thou charming flower, 
No longer in confinement lie, 
Arise to light, thy form discover, 
Rival the azure of the sky. 
The rains are gone, the storms are o’er ; 
Winter retires to make thee way ; 
Come then, thou sweetly blooming flower, 
Come, lovely stranger, come away. 
The sun is dressed in beaming smiles, 
To give thy beauties to the day : 
Young zephyrs wait with gentlest gales, 
To fan thy bosom as they play. 
