kr" 



<^» 



'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. 



Your voiceless lips, O Flowers, are living 

 preachers. 



Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book. 

 Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers 



From loneliest nook. 



Were I, O God, in churchless lands re- 

 maining, 

 Far from all voice of teachers or divines. 

 My soul would find, in Flowers of Thy 

 ordaining. 

 Priests, sermons, shrines ! 



//orace Smith. 



