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'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell that | Posthumous glories! angel-like collection!
Upraised from seed or bulb interred in earth,
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
To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder,
Its choir the winds and waves, its organ thunder,
There, as in solitude and shade I wander
Your voiceless lips, O flowers! are living preach
Each cup a pulpit, every leaf a book, Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers From loneliest nook.
Floral apostles! that in dewy splendor
"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,
Were I in churchless solitudes remaining,
Ephemeral sages! what instructors hoary
For such a world of thought could furnish scope? Each fading calyx a memento mori,
Yet fount of hope.
I WILL not have the mad Clytie,
Whom, therefore, I will shun;
The pea is but a wanton witch,
That always mourns the dead ;-
With her cheeks of tender red.
The lily is all in white, like a saint,
And the daisy's cheek is tipped with a blush,
Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves,
And the broom's betrothed to the bee ;But I will plight with the dainty rose, For fairest of all is she.
FROM "HASSAN BEN KHALED."
THEN took the generous host A basket filled with roses. Every guest Cried, "Give me roses!" and he thus addressed Not useless are ye, flowers! though made for His words to all: "He who exalts them most pleasure; In song, he only shall the roses wear." Blooming o'er field and wave, by day and night, Then sang a guest: "The rose's cheeks are fair; From every source your sanction bids me treasure It crowns the purple bowl, and no one knows Harmless delight. If the rose colors it, or it the rose. And sang another: "Crimson is its hue, And on its breast the morning's crystal dew Is changed to rubies." Then a third replied "It blushes in the sun's enamored sight, As a young virgin on her wedding night,
When from her face the bridegroom lifts the veil.”
THE angel of the flowers, one day,
Or brought a kiss
From that sweet heart to this?
Would have this lecture read, "That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth."
STAR of the mead! sweet daughter of the day,
Ан, sunflower! weary of time,
Where the youth pined away with desire,
THERE is a flower, a little flower With silver crest and golden eye, That welcomes every changing hour, And weathers every sky.
The prouder beauties of the field
In gay but quick succession shine; Race after race their honors yield, They flourish and decline.
But this small flower, to Nature dear, While moous and stars their courses run, Inwreathes the circle of the year, Companion of the sun.
It smiles upon the lap of May,
To sultry August spreads its charm, Lights pale October on his way,
And twines December's arni.
The purple heath and golden broom
On moory mountains catch the gale; O'er lawns the lily sheds perfume, The violet in the vale.
But this bold floweret climbs the hill, Hides in the forest, haunts the glen, Plays on the margin of the rill,
Peeps round the fox's den.
Within the garden's cultured round
It shares the sweet carnation's bed; And blooms on consecrated ground In honor of the dead.
The lambkin crops its crimson gem ;
The wild bee murmurs on its breast; The blue-fly bends its pensile stem Light o'er the skylark's nest.
'Tis Flora's page, - in every place,