220 FLO WE R- LAND. 



To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder, 

 Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply 

 Its choir the winds and waves its organ thunder 

 Its dome the sky. 



There, amid solitude and shade, I wander 

 Through the green aisles, and, stretched upon the sod, 

 Awed by the silence, reverently ponder 

 The ways of God. 



HORACE SMITH. 



