Philadelphia, December, 1840. * * * * * LANGUAGE OF THE WILD FLOWERS. BY THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH, M. D. _I. Solanum Dulcamara._ Deadly Nightshade. DEATH. I hear thy step afar— I see the flashing of thy blade Out-blazing like a meteor star, Thine eyes are peering from the shade, Burning with smouldering flame; Thy voice is as a woman’s wail, Thy face is bloodless all and pale, A mockery to fame. Thou sportest thee a shad’wy robe— Thy fingers grasp an air-built globe— A mighty scorn is on thy lip, Haught skeleton! Thy wrath is straining on the slip Unearthly one! Fire leaves thy nostrils—plague thy breath; Fear is thy handmaid—thou art Death! Smile not so grimly—though an hour May find me powerless in thy pow’r, And subject me to thy control,— ’Twill be my body—not my soul, There victor, I defy thee. For though thou mayest seize my form, Devote my body to the worm— And all the grave’s corruption—HE, The maker both of thee and me, Decreeth to deny thee Presumptuous one! all power to inherit, That portion of his breath which is my spirit. _II. Sambucus Canadensis._ Elder. BE COMPASSIONATE. The wind blows cold—yon poor, old man Seeks pity for his woe, For naught hath he to bear him on, Though a long, long way to go, All houseless, homeless, weak and tired, While friends are far away, His clothes are tattered—locks are white— Oh! pity him, I pray. His wife is dead—his children gone, He knoweth not where but far; The sun’s bright light he seeth not, Nor light of moon nor star. For God hath taken sight away, Hath bent him as you see; And made his limbs as thin and weak As those of a withered tree. A very little from your wealth, Some coppers more or few’r— Will get him a morsel of bread to eat, And cannot make you poor. Give alms! the memory will be A balm unto thy heart, A spring to thy limbs—a sight to thine eye— And joy to ne’er depart. Oh! curl not thy proud lip, nor turn Thy form away in pride; As _he_ is, _you_ may be e’er long, When woes of life betide. Then as a wearied, blasted man, From door to door you go— You’ll think with tears of when you scorned The humble blind man’s woe. _III. Juniperus Virginiana._ Cedar. WINTER. The winter has come, and the skaters are here With a falchion of steel On each manly heel, To strike the ice with a stroke of fear; And to make the victim the story tell, With a voice as clear as a tinkling bell.