




THE FOETRY OF FLOWERS. 
But this bold floweret climbs the hilt 
Hides in the forest, haunts the glen; 
Stays on the margin of the rill, 
Peeps round the fox’s den. 
Within the garden’s cultured round 
It shares the sweet carnation’s bed ; 
And blooms in consecrated ground 
In honour of the dead. 
The lambkin crops its crimson gem, 
The wild-bee murmurs on its breast 
The blue-fly bends its pensile stem, 
Light o’er the skylark’s nest. 
’Tis Flora’s page :—in every place, 
In every season, fresh and fair, 
It opens with perennial grace, 
And blossoms every where. 
On waste and woodland, rock and plair, 
Jts humble buds unheeded rise ; 
The rose has but a summer reign, 
The daisy never dies, 





