THE POXTRY OF FLOWERS. 
+ A BRANCH JF 
Bs 
BY MRS. TIGHE. 
Opovurs of spring, my sense ye charm 
With fragrance premature; 
And, mid these days of dark alarm 
Almost to hope allure. 
Methinks with purpose soft ye come 
To tell of brighter hours, 
Of May’s blue skies, abundant bloom, 
Her sunny gales and showers. 
Alas! for me ae May in vain 
The powers of life restore ; 
These eyes that weep and watch in pain 
Shall see her charms no more, 
No, no, this anguish cannot last! 
Beloved friends, adieu ! 
The bitterness of death were past, 
Could I resign but you. 
But oh! in every mortal pang 
That rends my soul from life,— 
That soul, which seems on you to hang 
Through each convulsive strife, 

