128 
The Poetry of Flowers. 
No ; let the dainty Rose awhile 
Her bashful fragrance hide— 
Rend not her silken veil too soon, 
But leave her, in her own soft noon, 
To flourish and abide. 
THE GARLAND. 
BY PKIOR. 
The pride of every grove I chose, 
The Violet sweet, the Lily fair, 
The dappled Pink and blushing Rose, 
To deck my charming Chloe’s hair. 
At morn the nymph vouchsafed to place 
Upon her brow the various wreath ; 
The flowers less blooming than her face- 
The scent less fragrant than her breath, 
The flowers she wore along the day : 
And every nymph and shepherd said, 
That in her hair they looked more gay 
Than glowing in their native bed. 
Undressed at evening, when she found 
Their odours lost, their colours past, 
She changed her look, and on the ground 
Her garland and her eyes she cast. 
That eye dropped sense distinct and clear, 
As any Muse’s tongue could speak, 
When from its lid a pearly tear 
Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek. 
