THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 57 | 
| Wt VIRParnP TiMT TOADpDm™ 1} 
(| FLOWERS FOR THE HEART. | 
BY E. ELLIOTT. 
| Fiowers! winter flowers ‘—the child is dead, \ 
i| The mother cannot speak : 
| O softly couch his little head, 
Or Mary’s heart will break ! 
| 
| Amid those curls of flaxen hair 
{| This pale pink riband twine, | 
| And on the little bosom there | 
Place this wan lock of mine. | 
| 
How like a form in cold white stone, 
The coffin’d infant lies! 
Look, Mother, on thy little one! 
And tears, will fill thine eyes. | 
She cannot weep, more faint she growa, 
More deadly pale and still: | 
Flowers! oh, a flower! a winter rose, l| 
That tiny hand to fill. | 
Go, search the fields! the lichen wet 
| Bends o’er th’ unfailing well; i| 
Beneath the furrow lingers yet | 
The scarlet pimpernel. 




