



















The Poetry of Flowers. 111 
But Love did not know—and at his weak years, 
What urchin was likely to know ?— \ 
That sorrow had made of her own salt tears | 
That fountain which murmured below. 
He caught at the wreath, but with too much haste, HY 
As boys when impatient will do ; Wi 
It fell in those waters of briny taste, Wy 
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. 
——$—— 


TO A CROCUS.* 
BY BERNARD BARTON. 
WELCOME, mild harbinger of Spring ! 
To this small nook of earth , 
Feeling and fancy fondly cling 
Round thoughts which owe their birth | 
To thee, and to the humble spot | 
Where chance has fixed thy lowly lot. | 
° To thee—for thy rich golden bloom, 
Like heaven’s fair bow on high, 
Portends, amid surrounding gloom, 
f That brighter hours draw nigh, 
D When blossoms of more varied dyes 
Shall ope their tints to warmer skies. 
* Growing up and blossoming beneath a Wallflower 

