The Poetry of Flowers. 
81 
Far round the tower I send mine eye, 
The tower so steep and tall; 
But nowhere can the flower descry 
From this high castle wall; 
And him who’ll bring me my desire, 
Or be he knight, or be he squire, 
My dearest friend I’ll call. 
ROSE. 
My blossoms near thee I disclose, 
And hear thy wretched plight; 
Thou meanest me, no doubt, the Rose, 
Thou noble, hapless knight. 
A lofty mind in thee is seen, 
And in thy bosom reigns the queen 
Of flowers, as is her right. 
CAPTIVE. 
Thy crimson bud I duly prize 
In outer robe of green ; 
For this thou’rt dear in maiden’s eyes, 
As gold and jewels’ sheen. 
Thy wreath adorns the fairest brow, 
And yet the flower—'tis not thou 
Whom my still wishes mean. 
LILY. 
The little Rose has cause for pride, 
And upwards aye will soar ; 
Yet am I held by many a bride 
The Rose’s wreath before. 
And beats thy bosom faithfully, 
And art thou true, and pure as I, 
Thou’lt prize the Lily more. 
F 
