THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
THE EVENING PRIMROSE. 
BY G. LANGHORNE. 
There are that love the shades of life, 
And shun the splendid walks of fame; 
There are that hold it rueful strife 
To risk Ambition’s losing game ; 
That far from envy’s lurid eye 
*1 he fairest fruits of genius rear, 
Content to see them bloom and die 
In friendship’s small but kindly sphere. 
Than vainer flowers, though sweeter far, 
The Evening Primrose shuns the day; 
Blooms only to the western star, 
And loves its solitary ray. 
In Eden’s vale an aged hind, 
At the dim’s twilight’s closing hour, 
On his time-smoothed staff reclined, 
With wonder view’d the openmg flower. 
“ Ill-fated flower, at eve to blow,” 
(In pity’s simple thought he cries.) 
'* Thy bosom must not feel the glow 
Of splendid suns, 0 ” smiling skies. 
