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POETRY OF FLOWERS. 243 
And it linger’d awhile on the earth’s dull face, 
Kissing the daughters of Flora’s race, 
‘And wearing, while flirting from bow’r to bow’r, 
The varied hue of each favourite flow’r ; 
But the rose, as it lay on her fragrant breast, 
With scorn the child of the clouds addrest : 
Cried she, “ Are no thanks to my beauty due? 
The beauty that lends thy borrow’d hue ? 
And dar’st thou thanklessly thus to shine 
With colours far brighter than e’er were thine ?° 
The dew-drop blush’d as it said, “’tis true 
That to thee I owe all of my roseate hue; 
But the gem-like lustre I give to it, 
Is, methinks, a reciprocal benefit.” 
THE TOKEN. 
Iv is a mere wild rosebud, 
Quite shallow now, and dry, 
Yet there’s something wondrous in it,— 
Some gleams of days gone by,— 
Dear sights and sounds that are to me 
The finger-posts of memory, 
And stir my heart’s blood far below 
Tis short-lived waves of joy and woe, 





