THE POETRY OF FIOWERS. 
53 
NIGHT-BLOOMING FLOWERS. 
BY JULIET H. LEWIS. 
Flir buds! I’ve wander’d day by day 
To this sequester’d spot, 
That I might catch your earliest smiles, 
And yet, you open not. 
The morning mists are scattered now, 
No cloud is in the sky, 
The sun, like a benignant king, 
Smiles from his throne on high; 
While birds, in gushing melody, 
Are offering homage up ; 
And sister flowers, beneath his gaze, 
Ope wide each fragile cup. 
Vhy shut you then your incense in, 
And hide your loveliness, 
As though no one might share your joy 
Beneath the sun’s caress ? 
Now wake you, ’tis the sunset hour, 
The day-king has gone down; 
Yet still, above the mountain’s top, 
Is seen his brilliant crown ; 
Awake you ! if his gleaming gents, 
His bands of glittering gold, 
His glorious, life-like radiance 
Departing, you’d behold. 
