





THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
Will that clime enfold thee 
With immortal air ? 
Shall we not behold thee 
Bright and deathless there ? 
In spirit-lustre clothed, transcendentiy more fair 
Yes! my fancy sees thee 
In that light disclose, 
And its dream thus frees thee 
From the mist of woes, 
Darkening thine earthly bowers, O bridal, royal 
rose. 
——_ }—_ 
THE ROSE, 
FROM BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
OF all flowers. 
Methinks a rose is best...... 
It is the very emblem of a maid; 
For w me os e west wind courts Wee gently, 
How modestly she blows, and paints the sun 
With her ae blushes! When the north comes 
near her, 
Rude and impatient, then, like ch lastity, 
She locks her beauties in he bud again, 
And leaves hin to base briers. 


















