T

THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS.

EACH thee their language? sweet, I know no tongue,

No mystic art those gentle things declare,

I ne'er could trace the schoolman's trick among
Created things, so delicate and rare :

Their language? Prythee; why, they are themselves
But bright thoughts syllabled to shape and hue,

The tongue that erst was spoken by the elves,
When tenderness as yet within the world was new.

And oh, do not their soft and starry eyes

Now bent on earth, to heaven now meekly pleading, Their incense fainting as it seeks the skies,

Yet still from earth with freshening hope recedingSay, do not these to every heart declare,

With all the silent eloquence of truth,

The language that they speak is Nature's prayer,
To give her back those spotless days of youth?

HOFFMAN.

ΤΟ

SEND thee lilies given to me;

Though, long before thy hand they touch,

I know that they must withered be;
But yet reject them not as such :
For I have cherished them as dear,

Because they yet may meet thine eye,
And guide thy soul to mine even here,
When thou beholdest them drooping nigh,
And know'st them gathered by the Rhine,
And offered from my heart to thine!

The river nobly foams and flows,

The charm of this enchanted ground,
And all its thousand turns disclose
Some fresher beauty varying round;
The haughtiest breast its wish might bound
Through life to dwell delighted here;
Nor could on earth a spot be found

To nature and to me so dear:

Could thy dear eyes, in following mine,
Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine!

BYRON.

THE NIGHT-BLOWING STOCK.

OME look at this plant with its narrow pale leaves

And its tall, thin, delicate stem,

Thickly studded with flowers! yes-there they are!
Don't you see at each joint there's a little brown star,
But in truth there's no beauty in them,

So you ask why I keep it, the mean little thing,
Why I stick it up here just in sight?

"Tis a fancy of mine, a strange fancy you say,
No accounting for tastes !-in this instance you may,
For the flower--but I'll tell you to-night:
Some six hours hence, when the Lady Moon
Looks down on the bastion wall,

And the glittering stars dance silently
On the rippling surface of the sea,

And the heavy night-dews fall;

Then meet me again in this casement niche,
On the spot where we're standing now,—

Nay! question not wherefore,-perchance with me,
To look on the night and the bright broad sea,
And to hear its majestic flow.

Well, we're met here again, and the moonlight sleeps On the sea, and the bastion wall,

And the flowers below-how the night-wind brings Their delicious breath on its dewy wings,

But there's one, say you, sweeter than all !

Which is it? the lily, or jessamine, or their sovereign lady, the rose,

Or the heliotrope, or the virgin's-bower?

What neither? Ah no, 'tis some other flower

Far sweeter than any of those!

Far sweeter! and where, think you, dwelleth the plant That exhaleth such perfume rare?

Look about, up and down, but take care, or you'll break With your elbow that poor little thing that's so weak ;— Why, 'tis that smells so sweet, I declare!

Ah, ha! have you found out now

Why I cherish the odd little fright?

All is not gold that glitters, you know;

And 'tis not always worth makes the greatest show, In the glare of the strongest light!

There are human flowers, full many, I ween,

As unlovely as that by your side,
That the common observer passes by

1 a scornful lip, and a careless eye,
the hey-day of pleasure and pride!
take one of these to some quiet spot,

rom the mid-day sun's broad glare,

ere peace and contentment brood with dove like wing,

The Night-Blowing Stock.

And see if the homely despised thing

May not yield sweet perfume there; And judge not again at a single glance, Nor pass sentence hastily,

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There are many bright things in this world of ours, Rare weeds, and strange plants, that prove precious flowers,

Little dreamt of by you, or by me.

ANON.