THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
And the beasts, and the birds, and the insects were 
drowned 
In an ocean of dreams without a sound ; 
Whose waves never mark, though they ever impress 
The light sand which paves it, consciousness , 
(Only over head the sweet nightingale 
Ever sang more sweet as the day might fail, 
And snatches of its Elysian chant _ . , 
Were mixed with the dreams of the Sensitive Plant;) 
The Sensitive Plant was the earliest 
Up-gathered into the bosom oi rest; 
A sweet child weary of its delight, 
The feeblest and yet the favourite, 
Cradled within the embrace of night. 
THE FRIENDLY TREE TO THE TRAVELLER. 
Hail, traveller in our Eastern land ! 
Beneath my boughs a shelter seek, 
By graceful drooping to the ground 
My hospitable wish they speak. 
Come ! and from fiery noontide sun 
Cool shade and refuge shall thou find, 
For feeling, near akin to man’s, 
Is in my leafy heart enshrined. 
I hail thee then ! for Nature tells 
How blest are they who freely give; 
And tender sympathies with man 
In all my buds and blossoms live. 
