The Poetry of Flowers. 
9 ° 
THE ROSES. 
BY BOWRING. 
I saw them once blowing, 
While morning was glowing ; 
But now are their withered leaves strewed o’er the 
ground, 
For tempests to play on, 
For cold worms to prey on, 
The shame of the garden that triumphs around. 
Their buds which then flourished, 
With dew-drops were nourished, 
Which turned into pearls as they fell from on high ; 
Their hues are all banished, 
Their fragrance all vanished, 
Ere evening a shadow has cast from the sky. 
I saw, too, whole races 
Of glories and graces 
Thus open and blossom, but quickly decay ; 
And smiling and gladness, 
In sorrow and sadness, 
Ere life reached its twilight, fade dimly away. 
Joy’s light-hearted dances, 
And melody’s glances, 
Are rays of a moment—are dying when born ; 
And pleasure’s best dower 
Is nought but a flower, 
A vanishing dew-drop—a gem of the morn. 
The bright eye is clouded, 
Its brilliancy shrouded, 
Our strength disappears, we are helpless and lone ; 
No reason avails us, 
And intellect fails us ; 
Life’s spirit is wasted, and darkness comes on. 
