THE POETRY. OF FLOWERS, 
A crowd of leaves ‘ ) 
And nine through life the s perfume, 
And all the thousand hues. 
CAPTIVE. 
The pink can no one justly slight, 
The gard’ner’s favourite flower ; 
He sets it now beneath the light, 
Now shields it from its power. 
Yet ’tis not pomp, who o’er the rest 
In splendour shines, can make me blest s 
It is a still, small flower. 
VIOLET 
I stand conceal’d, and bending low, 
And do not love to speak ; 
Yet will I, as ’tis fitting now, 
My wonted silence break. 
For if ’tis I, thou gallant man, 
Thy heart desires, thine, if I can, 
My perfumes all I’ll make. 
CAPTIVE. 
The violet I esteem indeed, 
So modest and so kind ; 
its fragrance sweet yet more I need, 
Es . 
ish’d mind. 
| confess ; 




