



230 POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
Ife caught at the wreath, but with too much 
haste, 
As boys, when impatient, will do; 
it fell in those waters of briny taste, 
And the flowers were all wet through. 
Yet this is the wreath he wears night and day ; 
And though it all sunny appears 
With Pleasure’s own lustre, each leaf, they say, 
Still tastes of the fountain of tears. 
THE ROSES. 
ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND ON THE BIRTH OF HIS 
FIRST CHILD. 
Two roses on one slender spray 
In sweet communion grew, 
Together hailed the morning ray, 
And drank the evening dew: 
While, sweetly wreathed in mossy green, 
There sprang a little bud between. 
Thro’ clouds and sunshine, storms and showers, 
They opened into bloom, 
Mingling their foliage and their flowers, 
Their beauty and perfume ; 
ot. 
