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POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
I love thee, simple eglantine, 
Thou fairest gem on Nature’s green ; 
I love thee most in Nature’s bower, 
Thou wild, yet pretty, hardy flower. 
Fair eglantine! thou lov’st to grow 
Where soft the zephyr-breezes blow; 
Thou claimest not the exotic bower. 
Oh, no! thou art an English flower! 

LINES 
SUGGESTED BY RECEIVING SOME SNOWDROPS FROM 
A LADY IN WILTSHIRE, IN THE EARLY PART OF 
FEB. 1843. 
Harn! white-robed heralds of the springs 
And dare ye brave our wintry sky? 
Hope's dearest children, for ye bring 
Your parent’s message—“ Spring is nigh !” 
Say, in the south, has Boreas fled ? 
Are ye from winter’s rule set free? 
Or did ye peer from shelter’d bed, 
When rudely pluck’d by Emily? 
While on your withering forms I look, 
Poor trembling flow’rets! ye appear 
Like fair leaves rent from nature’s book— 
Sweet preface to the floral year. 



