

































































THE POZTRY OF FIOWERS. 
While silent showers are falling slow 
And, ’mid the general hush, 
A sweet air lifts the little bough, 
Lone whispering through the bush ! 
The primrose to the grave is gone; 
The hawthorn flower is dead ; 
The violet by the moss’d gray stone 
Hath laid her weary head ; 
But thou, wild bramble! back dost bring 
In all their beauteous power, 
The fresh green days of life’s fair spring, 
And boyhood’s blossomy hour. 
Scorn’d bramble of the brake! once more 
Thou bidd’st me be a boy, 
To gad with thee the woodland’s o’er, 
In freedom and in joy. 
oh 
CRILDREN OF THE SUN’S FIRST 
GLANCING, 
FROM SCHILLER. 
CuitpRen of the sun’s first glancing, 
Flowers tha‘ deck the bounteous earth; 
Joy and mirth are round ye dancing, 
Nature smiled upon your birth; 
Light hath veined your petals tender, 
And with hues of matchless splendour 


























Flo 
Aube 
All 




love 


Shut 
