THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS.

Fragrant daughters of the earth, Love presided at your birth; Fancy, by your floral aid, Passion's ardour oft portrayed; Let me, then, a garland twine Of varied hues, to picture mine. Purity, with brow serene, Heeds no costly jewel's sheen; Cull the Lily's blossom sweet To strew the path beneath her feet. In its virgin hue we find An image of the spotless mind. Braid the maiden's glossy hair; Place the verdant Myrtle there; Love, with roses myrtle blended, When to earth He first descended; It will blossom brighter now, On the fair one's snowy brow. Shining Laurel, let not Fame Your leaves, for heroes only, claim; On blood-stained fields they gain the prize The Poet wins in peaceful guise; The poets, then, with heroes share The right the laurel crown to wear. Know you the Rose? the garden's queen! Few months, alas! her bloom is seen; Breathing incense to the air, Magic odours hover there. But near the rose, the thorn is ever; Who can love from sorrow sever? Let the Daisy's modest grace In my garland find a place; The 'bonnie gem' of Scotia's Bard, 'Mid rarer flowers in garden cared, Though humbly reared, a part may claim, In memory of the Poet's fame. Dusky Cypress, sadness weaves Wreaths for mourners of thy leaves; Ever o'er the silent grave Drooping branches sadly wave. Ah! how vain the tears we shed For friends once numbered with the dead! See! Life's pictures quickly fade, And the flowers in dust are laid; But the Spring's awak'ning fire Love and Life once more inspire: To mourning hearts a hope is given That we may meet and love in Heaven!