






LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
Full many a bard has sung their praise 
In metre smooth, and polished line ; 
A simple flower and humbler lays 
May best befit a pen like mine. 
There is a small but lovely flower, 
With crimson star and calyx brown, 
On pathway side, beneath the bower, 
By Nature’s hand profusely strown. 
Inquire you when this fiowret springs ?>— 
When Nature wakes to mirth and love, 
When all her fragrance summer flings, 
When latest autumn chills the grove. 
Like the sweet bird whose name it bears, 
*Midst falling leaves and fading flowers, 
The passing traveller it cheers, 
In shorten’d days and darksome hours. 
And, should you ask me where it blows, 
J answer, on the mountains bare, 
High on the tufted rock it grows, 
In lonely glens or meadows fair. 
It blooms amidst those flowery dales 
Where winding Aire pursues its course ; 
It smiles upon the craggy fells 
That rise around its lofty source. 
There are its rosy petals shewn, 
*>Midst curious forms and mosses rare, 
Imbedded in the dark grey stone, 
When not another flower is there. 


























Whirk 
Wicd, 
Hy seal 

At tare if 
ih a bor 
Cate 
i An 
a Fut 
“eon 
