

























The Poetry of Flowers. 
ee ee 
Soon fades the sweetest ; first the fairest dies, 
For frail and fair are sisters ; but the heart, 
Filled with deep love, Death’s power to kill denies, 
And sobs e’en o’er the dead, ‘‘ We cannot part |” 
Have I not seen thee, Wild Rose, in my dreams? 
Like a pure spirit—beauteous as the skies, 
. When the clear blue is brightest, and the streams 
i Dance down the hills, reflecting the rich dyes 
Of morning clouds, and cistus woodbine-twined— 
a Didst thou not wake me from a dream of death? 
Yea, and thy voice was sweeter than the wind 
When it inhales the love-sick Violet’s breath, 
Bending it down with kisses, where the bee 
Hums over golden gorse and sunny broom. 
Soul of the Rose ! what said’st thou then to me? 
“We meet,” thou said’st, ‘‘though severed by the 
tomb : 
ht Lo, brother, this is heav’n! and thus the just shall 
bloom.” 
—_—+— 
TO THE BRAMBLE FLOWER. 
BY E. ELLIOTT. 
Tuy fruit full well the schoolboy knows, 
Wild Bramble of the brake ! 
So, put thou forth thy small white rose ; 
I love it for his sake. 
ls Though Woodbines flaunt and Roses glow 
O’er all the fragrant bowers, 
Thou need’st not be ashamed to show 
Thy satin-threaded flowers ; 
