POETRY OF FLOWERS. 61 
But when the careless maiden thought 
To share the autumn treasure, 
The trees produced not what she sought, 
Which filled her with displeasure. 
The gardener marked her vain pursuit 
Among the orchard bowers, 
And cried, “if you expected fruit, 
Why did you pluck the flowers ?” 
THE EVERLASTING ROSE. 
Hart to thy hues, thou lovely flower ! 
Still shed around thy soft perfume ; 
Still smile amid the wint’ry hour; 
And boast e’en now a spring-tide bloom. 
Thine is, methinks, a pleasant dream, 
Long lingering in the icy vale, 
Of smiles that hail’d the morning beam. 
And sighs more sweet for evening’s gale ! 
Still are thy green leaves whispering 
Low sounds to Fancy’s ear that tell 
Of mornings, when the wild bee’s wing 
Shook dew-drops from thy sparkling cell. 






