
The Poetry of Flowers. 

The hope that, as thy beauteous bloom 
Expands to glad the close of day, 
So through the shadows of the tomb 
May break forth mercy’s ray. 

TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE, 
BY H. K. WHITE. 
MILD offspring of a dark and sullen sire! 
Whose modest form, so delicately fine, 
Was nursed in whirling storms, 
And cradled in the wind. 
Thee, when young Spring first questioned Winter's 
sway, 
And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight— 
Thee on this bank he threw, 
To mark his victory. 
In this low vale, the promise of the year, 
Serene thou openest to the nipping gale, 
Unnoticed and alone, 
Thy tender elegance. 
So Virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms 
Of chill adversity, in some lone walk 
Of life she rears her head, 
Obscure and unobserved ; 
While every bleaching breeze that on her blows 
Chastens her spotless purity of breast, 
And hardens her to bear 
Serene the ills of life. 















