POETRY OF FLOWERS, 
101 
Art thou that “ Lily of the field,” 
Which, when the Saviour sought to shield 
The heart from blank despair. 
He showed to our mistrustful kind, 
An emblem to the thoughtful mind 
Of God’s paternal care ? 
Not thus I trow : for brighter shine 
To the warm skies of Palestine 
Those children of the east. — 
There, when mild autumn’s early rain 
Descends on parch’d Esdrela’s plain. 
And Tabor’s oak-girt crest— 
More frequent than the host of night, 
Those earth-born stars, as sages write. 
Their brilliant disks unfold ; 
Fit symbol of imperial state 
Their sceptre-seeming forms elate. 
And crowns of burnish’d gold. 
But not the less sweet spring-tide’s flower. 
Dost thou display the Maker’s power. 
His skill and handy work. 
Our western valley’s humbler child ; 
Where in green nook of woodland wild 
Thy modest blossoms lurk. 
What though nor care nor art be thino. 
The loom to ply, the thread to twine ! 
