4G THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
Then, musing in the woodland nook 
Each flower was as a written book, 
Becalling, by memorial quaint, 
The holy deed of martyred saint ; 
The jpatient faith, which, unsubdued, 
Grew mightier, tried through fire and blood 
One blossom, ’mid its leafy shade. 
The virgin’s purity pourtrayed ; 
And one, with cup all crimson dyed, 
Spoke of a Saviour crucified ; 
And rich the store of holy thought 
The little forest-flower brought, 
Doctrine and miracle whate’er 
We draw from books, was treasured there : 
Faith, in the wild woods tangled bound, 
A blessed heritage had found ; 
And Charity and Hope were seen 
In the lone isle, and Wild ravine. 
Then pilgrims, through the forest brown, 
Slow journeying on from town to town, 
Halting ’mong mosses green and dank, 
Breathed each a prayer before he drank 
From waters by the pathway side ; 
Then duly, morn and eventide, 
Before these ancient crosses grey, 
