Floral Poetry. 
There, as in solitude and shade I wander, 
Through the green aisles, or stretched upon the sod, 
Awed by the silence, reverently ponder 
The ways of God. 
Your voiceless lips, O flowers ! are living preachers, 
Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book, 
Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers 
From loneliest nook. 
Floral apostles ! that in dewy splendour, 
“ Weep without woe, and blush without a crime,” 
O 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 pictures, heavenly Artist ! 
With which thou paintest Nature’s widespread 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. 
