107 
The Poetry of Flowers. 
That Beauty hath, to bear too deep a sense 
Other own self-conceived excellence. _ 
Oh ! hadst thou known the worth of Heaven’s rich 
Thou would'st have turned it to a truer use. 
And not (with starved and covetous ignorance) 
Pined in continual eyeing that bright gem, 
The glance whereof to others had been more 
Than to thy famished mind the wide world's store. 
THE HAREBELL. 
BY SCOTT. 
“For me,” she stopped, and, looking round, 
Plucked a blue Harebell from the ground,— 
“For me, whose memory scarce conveys 
An image of more splendid days, 
This little flower that loves the lea, 
May well my simple emblem be ; 
It drinks heaven’s dew, blithe as the Rose 
That in the king’s own garden grows ; 
And when I place it in my hair, 
Allan, a bard is bound to swear 
He ne'er saw coronet so fair.” 
THE HALF-BLOWN ROSE. 
BY DANIEL. 
Look, now, now we esteem the half-blown Rose, 
The image of thy blush and summer's honour ; 
Whilst yet her tender bud doth undisclose 
That full of beauty time bestows upon her. 
No sooner spreads her glories to the air, 
But straight her wide-blown pomp comes to 
decline; 
