Godey's Lady's Book, Vol. 42, May, 1851

DESIGNED AND ENGRAVED EXPRESSLY FOR GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK.
PHILADELPHIA, MAY, 1851.
VOL. XLII.
MAY.
As, wandering forth at rosy dawn, When sparkling dew-drops deck the lawn, From glen and glade, and river-side, We bring young flowers—the morning's pride. And, bound in wreaths, or posies sweet, With flowers our favored ones we greet; For flowers a silent language own, That makes our maiden wishes known. A language that by love was wrought, And by fond love to mortals taught; A language, too, that lovers know, Where, watched by love, sweet flowers may blow. A language richer, purer far Than all the tongue-born dialects are; And, as the flowers, devoid of art, It is the language of the heart. Thoughts that would perish all untold Live on the tongues that flowers enfold: Thus will the Tulip's crimson shell The love of stammering youth unveil. And happy will that trembler be, If she, with cheek of modesty, Shall give his soft avowal room, And twine it with the Myrtle's bloom. But, should her heart feel not his glow, The mottled Pink may answer No; Yet Friendship, in an Ivy wreath, A balm upon the wound will breathe. The Morning-glory's dewy bell In mystic tones of hope may tell— Tell of a struggle in the breast, Where, warring, love 'gainst love is pressed. The Heartsease, flower of purple hue, Seeks an affection ever true; And, in the Bay-leaf's still reply, Speaketh a love will never die. The little Daisy grows for her Who heedeth not the flatterer; And spotless Lilies love the breast Where child-like Innocence is pressed. Young Beauty's symbol is the Rose Whose blushing petals half unclose; And in the snowy Violet Sweet Modesty her home hath set. And thus of feeling, every shade May be through voiceless flowers conveyed; And all the fond endearments known To deep-felt love, thus greet love's own.

Engraved expressly for Godey's Lady's Book by W. E. Tucker Printed by H. Quig.
BY WM. ALEXANDER.
Ah! is he blind, who erst, untiringly, Searched wildwood, prairie, meadow, rock, and wold, For you, sweet songsters, clad in yellow gold? When comes spring's carnival, enchantingly Sing ye to him, with sorrow in your song; For that his sightless orbs now roll in vain, No more to view your rainbow-tints again— Love-lays in gratitude to him belong, From matin Lark, loud herald of the day— From Philomel, coy chorister of night: Listens he yet, ye birds, with dear delight, In rapture musing on your plumage gay, Hoping to soar, when life's short day is done, On eagle-pinions up to yonder central sun.