'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell that | Posthumous glories! angel-like collection!

Upraised from seed or bulb interred in earth,
Ye are to me a type of resurrection
And second birth.


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

Its choir the winds and waves, its organ thunder,
Its dome the sky.

There, as in solitude and shade I wander
Through the green aisles, or stretched upon the
Awed by the silence, reverently ponder
The ways of God,

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
"Weep without woe, and blush without a
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
What a delightful lesson thou impartest
Of love to all!

Were I in churchless solitudes remaining,
Far from all voice of teachers and divines,
My soul would find, in flowers of God's ordaining,
Priests, sermons, shrines!


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,
Whose head is turned by the sun;
The tulip is a courtly quean,

Whom, therefore, I will shun;
The cowslip is a country wench,
The violet is a nun ;-
But I will woo the dainty rose,
The queen of every one.

The pea is but a wanton witch,
In too much haste to wed,
And clasps her rings on every hand;
The wolfsbane I should dread;
Nor will I dreary rosemarye,

That always mourns the dead ;-
But I will woo the dainty rose,

With her cheeks of tender red.

The lily is all in white, like a saint,
And so is no mate for me;

And the daisy's cheek is tipped with a blush,
She is of such low degree;

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.




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.”
When all had sung their songs, 1, Hassan, tried.
"The rose," I sang, "is either red or pale,
Like maidens whom the flame of passion burns,
And love or jealousy controls, by turns.
Its buds are lips preparing for a kiss ;
Its open flowers are like the blush of bliss
On lovers' cheeks; the thorns its armor are,
And in its center shines a golden star,
As on a favorite's cheek a sequin glows;
And thus the garden's favorite is the rose.'
The master from his open basket shook
The roses on my head.


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THE angel of the flowers, one day,
Beneath a rose-tree sleeping lay,
That spirit to whose charge 't is given
To bathe young buds in dews of heaven.
Awaking from his light repose,
The angel whispered to the rose:
"O fondest object of my care,
Still fairest found, where all are fair;
For the sweet shade thou giv'st to me
Ask what thou wilt, 't is granted thee."
"Then," said the rose, with deepened glow,
"On me another grace bestow."

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Or brought a kiss

From that sweet heart to this?
No, no; this sorrow shown
By your tears shed,

Would have this lecture read, "That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth."


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STAR of the mead! sweet daughter of the day,
Whose opening flower invites the morning ray,
From the moist cheek and bosom's chilly fold
To kiss the tears of eve, the dew-drops cold!
Sweet daisy, flower of love! when birds are paired,
'T is sweet to see thee, with thy bosom bared,
Smiling in virgin innocence serene,
Thy pearly crown above thy vest of green.
The lark with sparkling eye and rustling wing
Rejoins his widowed mate in early spring,
And, as he prunes his plumes of russet hue,
Swears on thy maiden blossom to be true.
Oft have I watched thy closing buds at eve,
Which for the parting sunbeams seemed to grieve;
And when gay morning gilt the dew-bright plain,
Seen them unclasp their folded leaves again;
Nor he who sung "The daisy is so sweet!"
More dearly loved thy pearly form to greet,
When on his scarf the ight the daisy bound,
And dames to tourneys shone with daisies crowned,
And fays forsook the purer fields above,
To hail the daisy, flower of faithful love.



Ан, sunflower! weary of time,
Who countest the steps of the sun,
Seeking after that sweet golden clime,
Where the traveler's journey is done;

Where the youth pined away with desire,
And the pale virgin shrouded in snow,
Arise from their graves, and aspire
Where my sunflower wishes to go.



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,
In every season, fresh and fair;
It opens with perennial grace,
And blossoms everywhere.

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