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The Poetry of Flowers. 
That love which changed—for wan disease, 
For sorrow that had bent, 
O’er hopeless dust, for withered age— 
Their moral element, 
And turned the thistles of a curse 
To types beneficent. 
THE ROSE. 
BY SPENSER. 
Ah ! see the virgin Rose, how sweetly she 
Doth first peep forth with bashful modesty, 
That fairer seems the less ye see her way ! 
Lo ! see soon after, how more bold and free 
Her bar^d bosom she doth broad display ; 
Lo! see soon after, how she fades away and falls. 
THE VIOLET. 
BY L. E. L. 
Why better than the lady Rose 
Love I this little flower ? 
Because its fragrant leaves are those 
I loved in childhood's hour. 
Though many a flower may win my praise, 
The Violet has my love ; 
I did not pass my childish days 
In garden or in grove. 
My garden was the window-seat, 
Upon whose edge was set 
A little vase—the fair, the sweet— 
It was the Violet. 
