


THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS, T45 
For this, through its leaves hath the white rose 
burst, 
For this, in the woods, was the violet nursed : 
Though they smile in vain for what once was ours, 
They are love’s last gift,—bring ye flowers, pale 
flowers ! 
Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel in 
prayer, 
They are Nature’s offering, their place is there, 
They speak of hope to the fainting heart, 
With a voice of promise they come and part. 
They sleep in dust through the winter hours, 
They break forth in glory,—bring flowers, bright 
flowers ! 

POOR ROBIN. 
Compensation, or, an Equivalent. 
sq] W when the primrose makes a splendid 
show, 
4, And lilies face the March winds in full 
blow, 
And humbler growths, as moved with one desire, 
Put on, to welcome Spring, their best attire, 





