
STIR, 
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THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
APRIL FLOWERS. 
RY BISHOP MANT. 
Nor, April, fail with scent and hue, 
To giace the lowlier blossoms new. 
Not only that, where weak and scant 
Peep’d forth the early primrose plant, 
Now shine profuse unnumber’d eyes, 
Like stars that stud the wintry skies; 
But that its sister cowslip’s nigh, 
With no unfriendly rivalry 
Of form and tint, and fragrant smells, 
U"er the green fields their yellow belle 
Unfold, bedropt with tawny red, 
And meekly bend the drooping head 
Not only that the fringed edge 
Of heath, or bank, or pathway hedge, 
Glows with the furze’s golden bloom; 
But mingling now, the verdant broom 
With flowers of rival lustre deck’d 
Uplifts its shapelier form erect. 
And there upon the sod below, 
Ground-ivy’s purple blossoms show, 
Like helmet of crusader knicht, 
Its anthers’ crosslike forms of white , 
And lesser periwinkle’s bloom, 
Like carpet of Damascus’ loom, 
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