to 
<t 
THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
4 
Serving at my heart’s command, 
a that are no tasks renewing, 
sing, as doth behove, | 
ae in praise of what I love! i] 
—~—— 
| THRAIVY. 
BARTON. 
Hast thou seen, in winter’s stormiest day, | 
The trunk of a blighted oak, | 
Not dead, but sinking in slow decay 
Beneath time’s resistless stroke, 
Round which a luxuriant ivy had grown, | 
And wreathed it with verdure no longer its own? 

| Perchance thou hast seen this sight, and then, 
| As I at thy years might do, 
|| Pass’d varelessly by, nor turn’d again 
That scathed wreck to view. 
| But now I can draw from that mouldering tree 
|| Thoughts which are soothing and dear to me. 
O smile not! nor think it a worthless thing, 
If it be with instruction fraught ; 
That which will closest and longest cling 
Is alone worth a seriovs thought! 
Should aught be mnlovely =: aysiet thus can shed 
Grace on the dying ves on the dead? 




