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FLOWERS FOR THE HEART.

BY E. ELLIOTT.

FLOWERS! winter flowers !—the child is dead,

The mother cannot speak : O softly couch his little head,

Or Mary's heart will break!

Amid those curls of flaxen hair

This pale pink riband twine, And on the little bosom there

Place this wan lock of mine.

How like a form in cold white stone,

The coffin'd infant lies!
Look, Möther, on thy little one !

And tears will fill thine eyes.

She cannot weep, more faint she grows,

More deadly pale and still :
Flowers ! oh, a flower! a winter rose,

That tiny hand to fill.

Go, search the fields! the lichen wet

Bends o'er th' unfailing well; Beneath the furrow lingers yet

The scarlet pimpernel.

Peeps not a snowdrop in the bower,

Where never froze the spring ?
A daisy? Ah! bring childhood's flower !

The half blown daisy bring !

Yes, lay the daisy's little head

Beside the little cheek;
O haste! the last of five is dead!

The childless cannot speak !

THE AMARANTH.

CROWNs inwove with Amaranth and gold,
Immortal Amaranth, a flower, which once
In Paradise, fast by the Tree of Life,
Began to bloom; but soon, for man's offence,
To Heaven removed, where first it grew, there

grows
And flowers aloft, shading the Fount of Life,
And where the River of Bliss, through midst of

Heaven,
Rolls o'er Elysian flowers her amber stream;
With these, that never fade, the spirits elect,
Bind their resplendent locks. Milton

THE WALL-FLOWER.

BY D. M. MOIR.

The wall-flower-the wall-flower,

How beautiful it blooms !
It gleams above the ruin's tower,

Like sunlight over tombs ;
It sheds a halo of repose

Around the wrecks of time;
To beauty give the flaunting rose,

The wall-flower is sublime.

Flower of the solitary place!

Gray ruin's golden crown!
Thou lendest melancholy grace

To haunts of old renown;
Thou mantlest o’er the battlement,

By strife or storm decay'd;
And fillest up each envious rent

Time's canker-tooth hath made.

Whither hath fled the choral band

That fill'd the abbey's nave ?
Yon dark sepulchral yew-trees stand

O'er many a level grave ;
In the belfry's crevices, the dove

Her young brood nurseth well,
Whilst thou, lone flower! dost shed abovo

A sweet decaying smell.

In the season of the tulip cup,

When blossoms clothe the trees, How sweet to throw the lattice up,

And scent thee on the breeze!
The Butterfly is then abroad,

The bee is on the wing,
And on the hawthorn by the road

The linnets sit and sing.

Sweet wall-flower-sweet wall-flower!

Thou conjurest up to me,
Full many a soft and sunny hour

Of boyhood's thoughtless glee;
When joy from out the daises grew

In woodland pastures green,
And summer skies were far more blue

Than since they e'er have been.
Now autumn's pensive voice is heard

Amid the yellow bowers, The robin is the regal bird,

And thou the queen of flowers !
He sings on the laburnum trees,

Amid the twilight dim,
And Araby ne'er gave the breeze

Such scents as thou to him.

Rich is the pink, the lily gay,

The rose is summer's guest ; Bland are thy charms when these decay

Of flowers, first, last, and best !

There may be gaudier on the bower,

And statelier on the tree;
But wall-flower, loved wall-flower,

Thou art the flower for me!

THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.

BY T. MOORE.

"Tis the last rose of summer

Left blooming alone,
All her lovely companions

Are faded and gone ;
No flower of her kindred,

No rose-bud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes

And give sigh for sigh.
I'll not leave thee, thou lone one

To pine on the stem ;
Since the lovely are sleeping,

Go sleep thou with them.
Thus kindly I scatter

Thy leaves on the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden

Lie scentless and dead.
So soon may I follow

When friendships decay,
And from love's shining circle

The gems drop away :

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