The Poetry of Flowers. 
7S 
THE JASMINE. 
BY MOORE. 
’TwAS midnight—through the lattice wreathed 
With Woodbine, many a perfume breathed 
From plants that wake when others sleep ; 
From timid Jasmine buds that keep 
Their odour to themselves all day ; 
But when the sunlight dies away, 
Let the delicious secret out 
To every breeze that roams about. 
TO PRIMROSES 
FILLED WITH MORNING DEW. 
BY HERRICK. 
Why do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears 
Speak grief in you, 
Who were but bom 
Just as the modest morn 
Teemed her refreshing dew ? 
Alas ! ye have not known that shower 
That mars a flower ; 
Nor felt the unkind 
Breath of a blasting wind ; 
Nor are ye worn with years ; 
Or warped as we, 
Who think it strange to see 
Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, 
Speaking by tears before ye have a tongue. 
Speak, whimpering younglings, and make known 
The reason why 
Ye droop and weep. 
