102 
THE POETHY OP FLOWEIIS. 
Oil, may I deeply learn, and ne’er surrender, 
Your lore 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 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 interred in earth, 
Ye are to me a type of resurrection, 
A second birth! 
