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POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
The flowers that blessed our early years, 
The woodbine and sweet violet, 
I gaze on often now with tears, 
Nor canst thou e’er their charms forget. 
Or should they in that clime be seen, 
In each sweet shadowy leaf thou'lt trace 
Some memory that once has been 
Dear to thine early dwelling-place ; 
Their very fragrance then would bear 
Thy wandering spirit to the spot 
Where last it saw them blossom fair, 
Distant and lorn, yet unforgot. 
FANCIES FOR MAY. 
’TIs merry in the mead, 
When tree, and flower, and weed, 
Unfold their tender leaflets to wanton in the 
Spring ; 
When the linnet in the croft, 
And the lark a mile aloft, 
And the blackbird in the thicket, attune their 
throats to sing. 
Oh! ’tis merry out of doors, 
On the daisy-spangled floors 









