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
Before the uprisen sun, God's lidless eye!
Throw from your chalices a sweet and holy
Incense on high.

Ye bright Mosaics! that with storied beauty
The floor of nature's temple tesselate
With numerous emblems of instructive duty,
Your forms create.

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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,
But to that fane, most catholic and solemn,
Which God hath planned.

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
The ways of God.

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
Your lore sublime!

"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!
Upraised from seed or bulb interred in earth,

Ye are to me a type of resurrection,
A second birth.

Were I, O God! in churchless lands remaining,
Far from all voice of teachers or divines,
My soul would find in flowers of thy ordaining,
Priests, sermons, shrines !

THE WREATH.

TO A FRIEND ON HER BIRTHDAY.

BY WILLIAM PETERS.

LET others sing the rich, the great,
The victor's palms, the monarch's state;
A purer joy be mine-

To greet the excellent of earth,

To call down blessings on thy worth,
And, for the hour that gave thee birth,
Life's choicest flowers entwine.

And lo! where snnling from above
(Meet helpmate in the work of love)
O'er opening hill and lawn,

With flowerets of a thousand dyes,
With all that's sweet of earth and skies,
Soft breathes the vernal dawn.

Come! from her stores we'll cull the best
Thy bosom to adorn ;

Each leaf in livelier verdure drest,
Each blossom balmier than the rest,
Each rose without a thorn;

Fleet tints, that with the rainbow died,
Brief flowers, that withered in their pride.
Shall, blushing into light, awake

And kindlier bloom, for thy dear sake.

And first-though oft, alas! condemned,
Like merit, to the shade-

The Primrose meek, with dews begemmed,
Shall sparkle in the braid:

And there, as sisters, side by side,
(Genius with modesty allied,)

The Pink's bright red, the Violet's blue.
In blended rays, shall greet our view,
Each lovelier for the other's hue.

How soft yon Jasmine's sunlit glow,
How chaste yon Lily's robe of snow,
With Myrtle green inwove,
Types, dearest, of thyself and me-
Of thy mild grace and purity,
And my unchanging love,

Of grace and purity, like thine,
And love, undying love, like mine.