
t 
POETRY OF FLOWERS. 279 
LILY. 
The rose has cause of pride, 
And upwards aye will soar ; 
Yet am I held, by many a bride, 
The rose’s wreath before. 
And beats thy bosom faithfully, 
And art thou true and pure as I, 
Thow’lt prize the lily more. 
CAPTIVE. 
I call myself both chaste and pure, 
And free from passions low ; 
And yet these walls my limbs immure 
In loneliness and woe. 
Though thou dost seem in white arrayed, 
Like many a pure and beauteous maid, 
One dearer thing I know. 
PINE. 
And dearer I, the pink, must be, 
And me thou sure dost choose, 
Or else the gardener ne’er for me 
Such watchful care would use; 
A crowd of leaves enriching bloom ! 
And mine through life the sweet perfume, 
And all the thousand hues. 



