HORACE SMITH. 
441 
“ Thou wert not, Solomon, in all thy glory, 
Array’d,” the lilies cry, “ in robes like ours; 
How vain your grandeur ! ah, how transitory, 
Are human flowers !” 
In the sweet-scented picture, 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 interr’d in earth, 
Ye are to me a type of resurrection, 
A second birth! 
Were I, 0 God ! in churchless lands remaining, 
Far from all voice of teachers or divines, 
My soul would find in flowers of thy ordaining. 
Priests, sermons, shrines ! 
