





THE POETRY OF FIOWERS. 
While silent showers are falling stow 
And, ’mid the general hush, 
A sweet air lifts the little bough, 
Lone whispering through the bush! 
The primrose to the grave is gone; 
The hawthorn flower is dead ; 
The violet by the moss’d gray stone 
Hath laid her weary head ; 
But thou, wild bramble! back dost bring, 
In all their beauteous power, 
The fresh green days of life’s fair spring, 
And boyhood’s blossomy hour. 
Scorn’d bramble of the brake ! once more 
Thou bidd’st me be a boy, 
To gad with thee the woodland’s o’er, 
In freedom and in joy. 
—_o— 
CHILDREN OF THE SUN’S FIRST 
GLANCING. 
FROM SCHILLER. 
Cuitpren of the sun’s first glancing, 
Flowers that deck the bounteous earth 5 
Joy and mirth are round ye dancing, 
Nature smiled upon your birth; 
Light hath veined your petals tender, 
And with hues of matchless splendour 
£ 



ea 
