A WILD OF FLOWERS. 
A Tulip blossomed one morning in May, 
By the side of a sanded alley ; 
Its leaves were dressed in a rich array, 
Like the clouds at the earliest dawn of day, 
When the mist rolls over the valley ; 
The dew had descended the night before, 
And lay in its velvet bosom, 
And its spreading urn was flowing o’er, 
And the crystal heightened the tints it bore 
On its yellow and crimson blossom. 
A sweet Red-rose, on its bending thorn, 
Its bud was newly spreading, 
And the flowing effulgence of early morn 
Its beams on its breast was shedding ; 
The petals were heavy with dripping tears, 
That twinkled in pearly brightness, 
And the thrush in its covert thrilled my ears 
With a varied song of lightness. 
A Lily, in mantle of purest snow, 
Hung over a silent fountain, 
And the wave in its calm and quiet flow, 
Displayed its silken leaves below, 
Like the drift on the windy mountain ; 
It bowed with the moisture, the night had wept, 
When the stars shone over the billow, 
And white-winged spirits their vigils kept. 
Where beauty and innocence sweetly slept 
On its pure and thornless pillow. 
A Hyacinth lifted its purple bell 
From the slender leaves around it ; 
It curved its cup in a flowing swell, 
And a starry circle crowned it ; 
The deep-blue tincture, that robed it, seemed 
The gloomiest garb of sorrow, 
As if on its eye no brightness beamed, 
And it never in clearer moments dreamed 
Of a fair and a calm to-morrow. 
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