THE CALOPOGON, 



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, 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 preachers, 



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 crime, 



Oh, may I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender, 



Your love sublime! 



Horace Smith. 



