THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. BY HORACE SMITH. DAY-STARS! that ope your eyes with man, to twinkle From rainbow galaxies of earth's creation, And dew-drops on her holy altars sprinkle As a libation. Ye matin worshippers! who bending lowly Ye bright Mosaics! that with storied beauty 11 Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell that swingeth, And tolls its perfume on the passing air, Makes sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth A call to prayer. Not to the domes where crumbling arch and column Attest the feebleness of mortal hand, To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder, Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply; Its choir the winds and waves-its organ thunderIts dome the sky. There as in solitude and shade I wander, Through the green aisles, or stretched upon the sod, Awed by the silence, reverently ponder Your voiceless lips, O flowers! are living preach ers, Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book, Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers From loneliest nook. O may I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender "Thou wert not, Solomon! in all thy glory, Arrayed," the lilies cry, "in robes like ours; How vain your grandeur! ah, how transitory, Are human flowers!" In the sweet scented pictures, heavenly Artist! With which thou paintest nature's wide-spread hall, What a delightful lesson thou impartest Of love to all! Not useless are ye, flowers! though made for pleasure, Blooming o'er field and wave by day and night, From every source your sanction bids me treasure Harmless delight. Ephemeral sages! what instructors hoary For such a world of thought could furnish scope? Each fading calyx a memento mori, Yet fount of hope. Posthumous glories! angel-like collection! Ye are to me a type of resurrection, Were I, O God! in churchless lands remaining, THE WREATH. TO A FRIEND ON HER BIRTHDAY. BY WILLIAM PETERS. LET others sing the rich, the great, To greet the excellent of earth, To call down blessings on thy worth, And lo! where snnling from above With flowerets of a thousand dyes, Come! from her stores we'll cull the best Each leaf in livelier verdure drest, Fleet tints, that with the rainbow died, And kindlier bloom, for thy dear sake. And first-though oft, alas! condemned, The Primrose meek, with dews begemmed, And there, as sisters, side by side, The Pink's bright red, the Violet's blue. How soft yon Jasmine's sunlit glow, Of grace and purity, like thine, |