
THE POETRY OF FLOWERS, 3$ 
TO THE PAINTED COLUMBINE. 
BY JONES VERY. 
BRicuHT image of the early years 
When glow’d my cheek as red as thou, 
And life’s dark throng of cares and fears 
Were swift-winged shadows o’er my sunny brow! 
’ Thou blushest from the painter’s page, 
Robed in the mimic tints of art ; 
But Nature’s hand in youth’s green age 
_ With fairer hues first traced thee on my heart. 
‘The morning’s blush, she made it thine, 
The morn’s sweet breath, she gave it thee; 
And in thy look, my Columbine ! 
Each fond-remember’d spot she bade nie see. 
I see the hill’s far-gazing head, 
Where gay thou noddest in the gale ; 
I hear light-bounding footsteps tread 
The grassy path that winds along the vale. 
I hear the voice of woodland song 
Break from each bush and well-known tree, 
And, on light pinions borne along, 
Somes back the laugh from childhocd’s heart of 
- glee. 


