286 
DIAL OF FLOWERS. 
Which many a bark with a weary guest, 
Hath sought but still in vain. 
Yet is not life, in its real flight. 
Mark’d thus— even thus—on earth, 
By the closing of one hope’s delight, 
And another’s gentle birth ? 
Oh! let us live, so that flower by flower, 
Shutting in turn, may leave 
A lingerer still for the sun-set hour, 
A charm for the shaded eve. 
ON FLORA’S HOROLOGE. 
C. SMITH. 
In every copse and sheltered dell, 
Unveiled to the observant eye, 
Are faithful monitors, who tell 
Flow pass the hours and seasons by. 
The greenrobed children of the Spring- 
Will mark the periods as they pass. 
Mingle with leaves Time’s feathered wing, 
And bind with flowers his silent glass. 
Mark where transparent waters glide, 
Soft flowing o’er their tranquil bed ; 
There, cradled on the dimpling tide, 
Nymphasa rests her lovely head. 
