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THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
« Those flowers he surely meant to strew 
On lost affection’s lowly cell, 
Though there, as fond remembrance grew, 
Forgotten from his hand they fell. 
“ Has not for thee the fragrant thorn 
Been taught her first rose to resign, 
With vain but pious fondness borne 
To deck thy Nancy’s honoured shrine! 
“ ’Tis Nature pleading in the breast, 
Fair memory of her works to find ; 
And when to fate she yields the rest, 
She claims the monumental mind. 
“ Why, else, the o’ergrown paths of time 
Would thus the lettered sage explore ; 
With pain these crumbling ruins climb 
And on the doubtful sculpture pore ? 
“ Why seeks he with unwearied toil, 
Through death’s dim walk to urge his way; 
Reclaim his long-asserted spoil, 
And lead oblivion into day ? 
“ ’Tis Nature prompts, by toil or fear 
Unmoved, to range through death’s domain; 
The tender parent loves to hear 
Her children’s story told again. 
“ Treat not with scorn his thoughtful hours, 
If haply near these haunts he stray ; 
Nor take the fair enlivening flowers 
That bloom to cheer his lonely way. 
