





The Poetry of Flowers. 
Thou sink’st, the image of thy rest 
Hath often eased my pensive breast 
Of careful sadness. 
And all day long I number yet, 
All seasons through, another debt, 
Which I, wherever thou art met, 
To thee am owing ; 
An instinct call it, a blind sense— 
A happy, genial influence, 
Coming one knows not how, nor whence, 
Nor whither going. 
Child of the year! that round dost run 
Thy pleasant course—when day's begun, 
As ready to salute the sun 
As lark or leveret, 
Thy long-lost praise* thou shalt regain ; 
Nor be less dear to future men 
Than in old time ;—thou not in vain 
Art Nature’s favourite, 
——44¢——__ 
LOVE'S WREATH. 
BY MOORE. 
WHEN Love was a child, and went idling round 
Among flowers the whole summer's day, 
One morn in the valley a bower he found, 
So sweet. it allured him to stay. 
O’erhead from the trees hung a garland fair, 
A fountain ran darkly beneath ; [there, 
"Twas Pleasure that hung the bright flowers up 
Love knew it and jumped at the wreath. 
——————— 


* See in Chaucer and the elder poets, the honours 
formerly paid to this flower. 
