



The Poetry of Flowers. 


Thus kindly I scatter 
Thy leaves on the bed, 
Where thy mates of the garden 
Lie scentless and dead. 
So soon may I follow 
When friendships decay, 
And from love’s shining circle 
The gems drop away ; I 
When true hearts lie withered, 
And fond ones are flown, 
Oh ! who would inhabit 
This cold world alone? 
+ 
THE WINTER NOSEGAY. 
BY WILLIAM COWPER. 
WHAT Nature, alas! has denied 
To the delicate growth of our isle, 
Art has in a measure supplied, 
And winter is decked with a smile. 
See, Mary, what beauties I bring 
From the shelter of that sunny shed, 
Where the flowers have the charms of the spring 
‘Though abroad they are frozen and dead, 
"Tis a bower of Arcadian sweets, 
Where Flora is still in her prime, 4 
A fortress to which she retreats 
From the cruel assaults of the clime, 
While earth wears a mantle of snow, 
‘These pinks are as fresh and as gay 
As the fairest and sweetest that blow 
On the beautiful bosom of May. 




























