A 
THE POETRY oF FLOWERS, 
$ 
best dower 
Is noug okt sate a flower, 
= > e 
>, 
Qu. 
o 
oO 
o 
Mm 
© 
16$ 
re rays of a mom 1ent—are dying when born; 
vanishing dew-drop—~a gein of the morn. 
The bright eye is clouded, 
Its brilliancy shrouded, 
Our strength disappears, we are helpless and lone 
Life 
e’s spirit is wasted, and darkness.comes on, 
No reason avails us, 
And intellect fails us; 
~~ 
TO THE SNOW-DROP. 
. BY BARRY CORNWALL. 
Pretty firstling of the year! 
Herald of the host of flowers, 
Hast thou left my cavern drear, 
In the hope of summer hours ? 
Back unto my earthen bowers! 
Back to thy warm world below, 
Till the strength of suns and showers 
Quell the now relentless snow ! 
Art still here ?—Alive? and blithe ? 
Though the stormy night hath fled, 
And tke Frost hath pass’d me scythe 
O’er .hy small unshelter’d head 


