
THE POETRY SF FIOV 
th, have never pass’d away: 
Is we, ’tis ours, are changed! not they, 
or love, and beauty, and delight, 
re a no death nor change; their might 
S our organs, which endure 
t, being themselves obscure. 
—p——. 
TO A BUNCH OF FLOWERS 
BY. REV. JAMES F. CLARKE. 

Lirtte firstlings of the year! 
Have you come my room to che 
You are dry and parched, I think 
Stand within this glass and drink 
Stand beside me on the table, 
*Mong my books—if I am able, 
I will fad a vacant space 
For your bashfulness and grace; 
Learned tasks and serious ee 
Shall be lightened by your ae 
Pure affection’s sweetest tok 
Choicest hint of love unspoken, 
Friendship in your help re joices, 
Uttering her mysterious voices. 
You are gifts the poor may offer-—— 
Wealth can find no better proffer s 
For you tell of tastes refined, 
Thoughtful heart and spirit kind. 
> 
oO 




