
The Poetry of Flowers. 

‘* Cease, restless gale!” it seems to say, 
“Nor wake me with thy sighing ! 
The honours of my vernal day 
On rapid wings are flying. 
‘To-morrow shall the traveller come 
Who late beheld me blooming ; 
a His searching eye shall vainly roam 
The dreary vale of Lumin.” 
—_+>——_ 
CUPID AND THE DIAL. 
ONE day, young frolic Cupid tried 
To scatter Roses o’er the hours, 
And on the dial’s face to hide 
The course of time with many flowers. 
By chance, his rosy wreaths had wound 
Upon the hands, and forced them on ; 
And, when he looked again, he found 
The hours had passed, the time was done. 
“ Alas!” said Love, and dropped his flowers, 
‘<J've lost my time in idle play ; 
The sweeter I would make the hours, 
The quicker they are passed away.” 

Vv 
THE CLOSED CONVOLVULUS. 
An hour ago, and sunny beams 
Were glancing o'er each airy bell ; 
And thou wert drinking in those gleams, 
Like beauty listening love's farewell. 




