51 
THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
A voiceless eloquence and power, 
Language that hath in life no sound, 
Still haunts, like Truth, the spirit-flower 
And hallows even Sorrow’s ground. 
The wanderer gives it Memory’s tear. 
Whilst Home seems pictured on its leaf ; 
And hopes, and hearts, and voices dear, 
Come o’er him — beautiful as brief. 
’Tis not the bloom, though wild or rare, 
It is the spirit power within, 
Which melts and moves our souls, to share 
The Paradise we here might win. 
Tor heaven itself around us lies, 
Not far, nor yet our reach beyond. . 
And we are watched by angels’ eyes, 
With hope and faith still fond. . 
I well believe a spirit dwells 
Within the flower 1 least changed of all, 
That of the passed Immortal tells — 
The glorious meads before man’s fall ; 
Yet, still, though I should never see 
The mystic grace within it shine — 
Its essence is sublimity, 
Its feeling all divine. . 
