
The Poetry of Flowers. 


The Rosebud’s the blush o’ my charmer, 
Her sweet balmy lip when ’tis prest : 
How fair and how pure is the Lily, 
But fairer and purer her breast. 
Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour, 
They ne’er wi’ my Phillis can vie: 
Her breath is the breath of the Woodbine, 
Its dew-drop o’ diamond her eye. 
Her voice is the song of the morning, 
That wakes through the green-spreading grove, 
When Phoebus peeps over the mountains, 
On music, and pleasure, and love. 
But beauty how frail and how fleeting, 
The bloom of a fine summer's day ! 
While worth in the mind o’ my Phillis 
Will flourish without a decay. 
—~~>— 
THE ORANGE-BOUGH. 
BY MRS. HEMANS, 
OH! bring me one sweet Orange-bough, 
To fan my cheek, to cool my brow ; 
One bough, with pearly blossoms drest, 
And bind it, mother, on my breast ! 
Go, seek the grove along the shore, 
Whose odours I must breathe no more— 
The grove where every scented tree 
Thrills to the deep voice of the sea. 
Oh! Love's fond sighs, and fervent prayer, 
And wild farewell, are lingering there ; 
Each leaf’s light whisper hath a tone 
My faint heart, even in death, would own. 










