19 
OR, LANGUAGE OE FLOWERS. 
The silent, soft, and humble heart, 
In the Violet’s hidden sweetness breathes ; 
And the tender soul that cannot part, 
A twine of Evergreen fondly wreathes. 
The Cypress that daily shades the grave, 
Is sorrow that mourns her bitter lot; 
And Faith that a thousand ills can brave, 
Speaks in thy blue leaves—Forget-me-not. 
Then gather a wreath from the garden bowers, 
And tell the wish of thy heart in flowers: 
O, so full of love their language will be— 
Right welcome to one who now loves thee ! 
The love of flowers has pervaded the 
minds of the sick and the dying; for they 
regard them as the wonderful productions 
of their Creator, whose wisdom and power 
are visible in the minutest objects in crea¬ 
tion ; and because they are beautiful, love¬ 
ly, and fragrant. They also remind them 
of their own fragile state,—fading, dying, 
descending to the dust—they remind them 
too of their resuscitated and glorified state 
in Paradise—there they will be more love¬ 
ly and enchanting than the brightest flow¬ 
ers on earth. Of their future glory, flow¬ 
ers are but faint emblems. 
