THE POETRY CF FLOWERS. 
Oh! »ceep the morning of his incarnation, 
The burning noon-tide of his bitter passion, 
The night of his descending, and the height 
Of his ascension,—ever in my sight, 
That, imitating him in what 1 may, 
E never follow an inferior way. 
THE LILY. 
BY SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
The stream with languid murmur creeps 
In Lumin’s flow’ry vale: 
Beneath the dew the lily weeps, 
Slow waving to the gale. 
*■' Cease, restless gale!” it seems to say 
“Nor wake me with thy sighing! 
The honours of my vernal day 
On rapid wings are flying. 
*■ 
tl To-morrow shall the traveller come 
Who late beheld me blooming; 
His searching eye shall vainly roam 
The dreary vale otf Lumin. ’ 
