THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
So sad, so spiritual, so pale, 
Born all too near the snow, 
They pine for that sweet southern gale, 
Which they will never know. 
TO A PRIMROSE 
PRESENTED TO A FRIEND IN JANUARY. 
CARRINGTON. 
Sweet herald of the ever gentle spring, 
How gently waved o’er thee the winter’s wing! 
Around thee blew the warm Favonian gale, 
Devonia nursed thee in her loveliest vale; 
Beneath she rolled the Plym’s pellucid stream, 
And heaven diffused around its quickening beam. 
But, ah ! the sun, the shower, the zephyr bland, 
Made thee but fair to tempt the spoiler’s hand. 
I cannot bear thee to thy bank again, 
And bathe thy breast in soft refreshing rain, 
Nor bid the gentle zephyr round thee play. 
Nor ’raptured eye thee basking in the ray; 
But snapped untimely from thy velvet stem, 
Be thou my daily care, my “ bonnie gem,” 
And when thus severed from thy native glade, 
The radiance of thy cinque-rayed star shall fade, 
And pale decay come creeping o’er thy bloom, 
A sigh, dear flower, shall mourn thy early doom, 
