7 ° 
Tne Poetry of Flowers. 
Would'st thou that thy lot were given 
Thus to receive the dews of heaven, 
With heart prepared, .like this meek flower? 
Come, then, and hail the dawning hour ; 
So shall a blessing from on high, 
Pure as the rain of summer's sky, 
Unsullied as the morning dew, 
Descend, and all thy soul imbue. 
Yes ! like the blossoms of the waste 
Would we the sky-born waters taste, 
To the High Fountain’s sacred spring 
The chalice let us humbly bring : 
So shall we find the streams of heaven 
To him who seeks are freely given ; 
The morning and the evening dew 
Shall still our failing strength renew. 
A CYPRESS LEAF: 
FOR THE GRAVE OF A DEAR ONE. 
The feelings I have felt have died away, 
The love that was my lamp death’s dews have 
quenched; 
The faith which, through life’s ills, ne’er knew 
decay, 
Hath in the chill showers of the grave been 
drenched; 
The hopes that buoyed my spirit ’mid the spray 
Of life’s wild ocean, one by one are wrenched— 
Cruelly wrenched away,—and I am now 
A solitary leaf on a rent bough ! 
The link that knit me to mankind is snapped— 
Briefly it bound me to a callous world ; 
The fortress of my comfort hath been sapped— 
Where are Joy’s banners, lightsomely unfurled. 
