

POETRY OF FLOWERS, 
They whisper to the faithful dead, 
With their fresh vernal breath, 
That such his rising hour shall be, 
Through Him who conquer’d death. 
THE YELLOW VIOLET. 
WueEn beechen buds begin to swell, 
And woods the blue-bird’s warble know, 
The yellow violet’s modest bell 
Peeps from the last year’s leaves below. 
Tre russet fields their green resume, 
Sweet flower! I love, in forest bare, 
To meet thee, when thy faint perfume 
Alone is in the virgin air. 
Cf all her train, the hands of Spring 
First plant thee in the watery mould ; 
And I have seen thee blossoming 
Beside the snow-bank’s edges cold. 
Thy parent sun, who bade thee view 
Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip, 
Tas bathed thee in his own bright hue, 
And streaked with jet thy glowing lip. 






















