40 
GARDENS, WREATHS, &c. 
Be this the closing tribute of my Strairt f 
Be this, Fair Flowers ! of charms— 
your last, and best! 
That when The Son or God for Man was 
slain, 
Circl’d by You, He sank awhile to rest,— 
Not The Grave’s captive, but A Garden’s 
guest, 
So pure andlovely washis transient tomb 1 
And He, whose brow the Wreath of Thorns 
had prest, 
Not only bore for us Death’s cruel doom. 
But won the thornless Crown of amaranthine 
bloom! 
BEAUTY AND FRAGRANCE O F 
FLOWERS. 
THOMSON. 
But, who can paint 
Like nature 1 Can imagination boast 
Amid its gay creation, hues like hers ? 
Or can it mix them with that matchless skill. 
And lose them in each other, as appears 
In ev’ry bud that blows 1 
Alongthese blushing borders, bright with dew, 
And in yon mingled wilderness of flowers, 
Fair-handed spring unbosoms every grace ; 
