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The Poetry 0/ Flowers. 
'Tis that some thought of me, 
When I am gone, may be 
The spirit bound to each familiar place. 
I bid mine image dwell 
(Oh ! break not thou the spell) 
In the deep wood and by the fountain side ; 
Thou must not, my beloved ! 
Rove where we two have roved, 
Forgetting her that in her spring-time died ! 
TO A JASMINE-TREE 
GROWING IN THE COURT OF HAWORTH CASTLE. 
BY LORD MORPETH. 
My slight and slender Jasmine-tree, 
That bloomest on my Border tower, 
Thou art more dearly loved by me, 
Than all the wealth of fairy bower. 
I ask not, while I near thee dwell, 
Arabia’s spice or Syria's rose ; 
Thy bright festoons more freshly smell, 
Thy virgin white more freshly glows. 
My mild and winsome Jasmine-tree, 
That climbest up the dark-grey wall, 
Thy tiny flow’rets seem in glee, 
Like silver spray-drops down to fall: 
Say, did they from their leaves thus peep, 
When mailed moss-troopers rode the hill, 
When helmed wardens paced the keep, 
And bugles blew for Belted Will ? 
My free and feathery Jasmine-tree, 
Within the fragrance of thy breath, 
Yon dungeon grated to its key, 
And the chained captive pined for death. 
