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THE POETRY OF FLOWERS 
Chaste as the icicle 
That’s curdled by the frost from purest snow, 
And hangs on Dian’s temple. 
Shakspeare. 
How fair the orange-bloom will smile, 
Amid that auburn braid! 
How soft will hum thy blush the while, 
Beneath the bridal shade! 
Thou ’rt young to wed ! — that virgin flower, 
White as thine own pure brow, 
Just stolen from its dewy bower, 
Is not more fresh than thou. 
Thou ’rt young to wear the bridal-bloom, 
Yet go! for in thy heart, 
A lovelier blossom lights the gloom, 
That timid fears impart.— 
The heaven-fed flower of Purity;— 
Oh! nurse the snowdrop still! 
And in its breath, a charm shall be, 
To guard thee from all ill. 
f. s. o. 
COLDNESb —TO LIVE WITHOUT LOVE. 
AGNUS CASTUS. 
Dioscorides, Pliny, and Galen inform us, that the priestesses 
of Ceres formed their virginal couch of the fragrant branches 
of the Agnus Castus, which is an autumnal shrub with whor- 
