GARDENS, WREATHS, fcc. 
29 
Of him who, wild as thy own wreath, 
Has all its artlessness 1 
The stag, the steed, the mountain wind, 
The birds that sportive skim, 
All joyful things, may to thy mind, 
Present the thought of him! 
I ask no more, delightful flowers! 
For ye to me have given 
Sweet thoughts, and many happy hours 
Of thankfulness to Heaven. 
THE REMONSTRANCE OF THE TRANSPLANTED 
FLOWERS. 
EMMA. C. EMBURY. 
Nay, hold, sweet lady, thy cruel hand, 
Oh, sever not thus our kindred hand, 
And look not upon us with pitiless eye, 
As on flow’rets born but to blossom and die. 
Together we drank the morning dew, 
And basked in the glances the sunbeams threw, 
And together our sweets we were wont to fling, 
When zephyr swept by on his radiant wing. 
When the purple shadows of evening fe.l, 
’T was sweet to murmur our low farewell 
3* 
