



THE POETRY OF FLOWERS 
And, Cupid, stooping too, to 
Thea angry insect stung his lip: - 
And, gushing from the ambrosial sell 
One bright drop on my bosom fell. 
Wee ping, to his mother he 
Told os tale of treachery, 
And she her vengeful boy to please, 
Strung his bow with captive bees, 
But placed upon my slender stem 
The aa sting she plucked from them 1 
And none since that eventful morn 
Have found the flower without a thorn. 

4 
THE FORGET-ME-NOT. - 
Nor on the mountain’s shelving side, 
Nor in the cultivated sround, 
Nor in the garden’s painted pride, 
The flower I seek is found. 
Where Time on sorrow’s page of gliom 
Has fix’d its envious lot, | 
Or swept the record from the tomb, | 
lt says, Forget-me-not. 
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1] 
And this is still the loveliest flower, I 
The fairest of the fair, 1 
Of all that deck my lady’s bower, i] 
Or bind her floating hair. {| 
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