The Poetry of Flowers. 
97 
TyPff 3 of lovelier forms than these, 
In their fragile mould she sees ; 
Shadows of yet richer things, 
Born beside immortal springs, 
Into fuller glory wrought, 
Kindled by surpassing thought. 
Therefore in the Lily’s leaf 
She can read no word of grief ; 
O’er the Woodbine she can dwell, 
Murmuring not—Farewell! farewell! 
And her dim, yet speaking eye, 
Greets the Violet solemnly. 
Therefore, once, and yet again, 
Strew them o’er her bed of pain ; 
From her chamber take the gloom, 
With a light and flush of bloom : 
So should one depart, who goes 
Where no death can touch the Rose. 
THE NIGHT-SHADE. 
BY BARRY CORNWALL. 
Tread aside from my starry bloom 1 
I am the nurse who feed the tomb 
(The tomb, my child), 
With dainties piled, 
Until it grows strong as a tempest wild. 
Trample not on a virgin flower ! 
I am the maid of the midnight hour ; 
I bear sweet sleep 
To those who weep, 
And lie on their eyelids dark and deep. 
