82 
The Poetry of Flowers. 
CAPTIVE. 
I call myself both chaste and pure, 
And pure from passions low ; 
Aud yet these walls my limbs immure 
In loneliness and woe. 
Though thou dost seem, in white array, 
Like many a pure and beauteous maid, 
One dearer thing I know. 
PINK. 
And dearer I, the Pink, must be, 
And me thou sure dost choose, 
Or else the gard’ner ne’er for me 
Such watchful care would use ; 
A crowd of leaves enriching bloom ! 
And mine through life the sweet perfume, 
And all the thousand hues. 
CAPTIVE. 
The Pink can no one justly slight, 
The gard'ner’s favourite flower ; 
He sets it now beneath the light, 
Now shields it from its power. 
Yet 'tis not pomp, who o'er this rest 
In splendour shines, can make me blest ; 
It is a still, small flower. 
VIOLET. 
I stand concealed, and bending low, 
And do not love to speak ; 
Yet will I, as 'tis fitting now, 
My wonted silence break. 
For if ’tis I, thou gallant man. 
Thy heart desires, thine, if I can, 
My perfumes all I’ll make. 
