i, 
‘ds 
eo 

POETRY OF FLOWERS. 231 
With treacherous aim, the god his arrow drew, 
Which she with icy coldness did repel ; 
Rebounding thence, with feathery speed it flew, 
Till on this lovely flower, at last, it fell. 
Heart’s-ease no more the wandering shepherd 
found ; 
No more the nymphs its snowy form possess ; 
Its white now changed to purple by Love’a 
wound, 
Heart’s-ease no more,—’tis Love-in-Idleness. 
THE DEAD ROSE. 
Oh rose! who dares to name thee P 
No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet 
But pale, and hard, and dry, as stubble-wheat,— 
Kept seven years in a drawer—thy titles shame 
thee. 
The breeze that used to blow thee, 
Between the hedge-row thorns, and take away 
An odour up the lane, to last all day,— 
If breathing now,—unsweetened would foregs 
thee. 



