


HE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 49 
Ay, prize them well, my child— 
ht, young blooming things that never 
die— 
Pointing our hopes to happier worlds, that lie 
Far o’er this earthly wild ! 
—t—= 
TO THE BRAMBLE FLOWER, 
BY E. ELLIOTT. 
Try fruit full-well the schoolboy knows, 
Nild bramble of the brake ! 
So, put thou forth thy small white rose; 
I love it for his sake 
Though woodbines flaunt and roses glow 
O’er all the fragrant bowers, 
Thou need’st not be ashamed to show 
Thy satin-threaded flowers; 
For dull the eye, the heart is dull 
That cannot feel how fair, 
Amid all beauty, beautiful 
Thy tender blossoms are! 
How delicate thy gauzy frill! 
How rich thy branchy stem ! 
How soft thy voice, when woods are still, 
And thou sing’st hymns to them: 






