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THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
Crown’st thou but the daughters 
Of our tearful race ?— 
Heaven’s own purest waters 
Well might bear the trace 
Of thy consummate form, melting to softer grace. 
Will that clime enfold thee 
With immortal air ? 
Shall we not behold thee 
Bright and deathless there ? 
In spirit-lustre clothed, transcendently more fair? 
Yes ! my fancy sees thee 
In that light disclose, 
And its dream thus frees thee 
From the mist of woes, 
Darkening thine earthly bowers, O bridal, royal rose 
THE ROSE. 
elton’s specimens. 
Did Jove a queen of flowers decree, 
The rose the queen of flowers should be. 
Of flowers the eye; of plants the gem ; 
The meadow’s blush; earth’s diadem; 
Glory of colours, on the gaze 
Lightening in its beauty’s blaze; 
It breathes of love ; it blooms the guest 
Of Venus’ ever-fragrant breast; 
In gaudy pomp its petals spread; 
Light foliage trembles round its head; 
With vermeil blossoms fresh and fair 
It laughs to the voluptuous air. 
