POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
51 
THE FLOWER SPIRIT. 
When earth was in its golden prime, 
Lie grief or gloom had marred its hue, 
And Paradise, unknown to crime, 
Ileneath the love of angels grew, 
Each flower was then a spirit’s home, 
Each tree a living shrine of song; 
And oh ! that ever hearts could roam,__ 
Could quit for sin that seraph throng! 
Rut there the spirit lingers yet, 
Though dimness o’er our visions fall, 
And flowers that seem with dew-drops wet, 
Weep angel-tears for human thrall; 
And sentiments and feelings move 
The soul, like oracles divine; 
And hearts that ever bowed to love, 
I iist lound it by the flowers’ sweet shrine. 
A voiceless eloquence and power, 
Language that hath in life no sound, 
Still haunts, like Truth, the Spirit-flower, 
And hallows even Sorrow’s ground. 
The wanderer gives it Memory’s tear, 
Whilst Home seems pictured on its leaf; 
And hopes, and hearts, and voices dear, 
Come o’er him—beautiful as brief. 
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