“ Thou wert not, Solomon! in all thy glory, 
Arrayed,”—the lily cries ,—“ in robes like ours: 
“ How vain your grandeur! ah! how transitory 
Are human flowers! ” 
In the sweet-scented pictures, heavenly artist! 
With which thou paintest nature’s wide-spread 
hall, 
What a delightful lesson thou impartest 
Of love to all! 
Nor useless arS ye, flowers, though made for pleas¬ 
ure, 
Blooming o’er field and wave, by day and night; 
From every source your sanction bids me measure 
Harmless delight. 
Ephemeral sages! what instructors hoary 
For such a world of thought could furnish scope; 
Each fading calyx a “ memento mori ,”— 
Yet fount of hope? 
