The Poetry of Flowers. 
105 
The Rosebud’s the blush o’ my charmer, 
Her sweet balmy lip when ’tis prest: 
How fair and how pure is the Lily, 
But fairer and purer her breast. 
Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour, 
They ne’er wi’ my Phillis can vie : 
Her breath is the breath of the Woodbine, 
Its dew-drop o’ diamond her eye. 
Her voice is the song of the morning, 
That wakes through the green-spreading grove, 
When Phoebus peeps over the mountains, 
On music, and pleasure, and love. 
But beauty how frail and how fleeting, 
The bloom of a fine summer’s day ! 
While worth in the mind o’ my Phillis 
Will flourish without a decay. 
THE ORANGE-BOUGH. 
BY MRS. HEMANS. 
Oh ! bring me one sweet Orange-bough, 
To fan my cheek, to cool my brow ; 
One bough, with pearly blossoms drest, 
And bind it, mother, on my breast! 
Go, seek the grove along the shore, 
Whose odours I must breathe no more— 
The grove where every scented tree 
Thrills to the deep voice of the sea. 
Oh ! Love’s fond sighs, and fervent prayer, 
And wild farewell, are lingering there ; 
Each leaf’s light whisper hath a tone 
My faint heart, even in death, would own. 
