THE POETRY OF FLOWERS, 
*51 
IN EASTERN LANDS. 
BY. J. G. PERCIVAL. 
In Eastern lands they talk in flowers, 
And they tell in a garland their loves and cares; 
Each blossom that blooms in their garden bowers. 
On its leaves a mystic language bears. 
The rose is a sign of joy and love, 
Young blushing love in its earliest dawn; 
And the mildness that suits the gentle dove 
From the myrtle’s snowy flower is drawn. 
Innocence shines in the lily’s bell, 
Pure as the heart in its native heaven; 
Fame’s bright star and glory’s swell, 
By the glossy leaf of the bay are given. 
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. 
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