70 
THE MORAL OF FLOWERS. 
Yes, ’t is sweet Evening’s hour! 
I know each signal well — 
The dying strains in brake and bower, 
The freshening breeze, the closing flower, 
These all her coming tell. 
Yea, now she flings 
From her soft wings 
A shade as sweet and sad as round past pleasure clings. 
And thou, oh, flow’ret fair! 
That aye, at set of sun, 
Dost yield those sweets withheld from day. 
Art greeting now yon star’s pure ray 
With fragrant orison ; 
And fancy deems 
The dew that gleams 
Upon thy breast is more than at the first it seems. 
Would that with incense meet 
I hail’d, like thee, fair flower, 
“ The time of evening sacrifice,” 
And spent in commerce with the skies 
The calm, the silent hour. 
How fit a shrine 
For rites divine, 
And the heart’s holiest gifts, oh, gentle Fve ! is thine. 
