POETRY OF FLOWERS. 4] 
TO A BLIGHTED BLOSSOM. 
Au, blossom blighted, luckless, lone, 
Thy fragrance fled, thy beauty gone, 
No eye regards thee now. 
Like wild weeds on a nameless grave, 
Thy melancholy petals wave 
Upon thy parent bough. 
But late in all thy rich array, 
Thou gem’dst the coronal of May, 
As Iris gems the skies. 
Thy rival sisters shrunk abased, 
Whilst bards beside thee paused and gazed 
With wonder-stricken eyes. 
Why did’st thou droop, thou tender thing, 
Bre yet the birds have ceased to sing 
Their joyous summer song ! 
Why did’st thou die, fair flower, while yet 
The pearly dew was lingering wet 
That should have nursed thee long ?° 
Was it with thee, as oft in life, 
Where envy vows eternal strife 
With merit’s modest claim ? 





