HYMN TO THE FLOWERS . 
Your voiceless lips, O flowers! are living preachers, 
Each cup a pulpit, every leaf a book, 
Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers 
From loneliest nook. 
Floral Apostles! that in dewy splendor 
“Weep without woe, and blush without crime,” 
O, may I deeply learn, and ne’er surrender, 
Your love sublime! 
“Thou wert not, Solomon, in all thy glory, 
Arrayed,” the lilies cry, “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! 
Not useless are ye, flowers! though made for pleasure; 
Blooming o'er field and wave, by day and night, 
From every source your sanction bids me treasure 
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. 
Posthumous glories! angel-like collection! 
Upraised from seed or bulb interred in earth, 
Ye are to me a type of resurrection 
And second birth. 
Were I in churchless solitudes remaining, 
Far from all voice of teachers and divines, 
My soul would find, in flowers of God’s ordaining, 
Priests, sermons, shrines. 
—Horace Smith. 
