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The Poetry of Flowers. 
TO THE PASSION-FLOWER. 
BY BERNARD BARTON. 
If Superstition’s baneful art 
First gave thy mystic name, 
Reason, I trust, would steel my heart 
Against its groundless claim. 
But if, in fancy’s pensive hour, 
By grateful feelings stirred, 
Her fond imaginative power 
That name at first conferred— 
Though lightly truth her flights may prize, 
By wild vagary driven, 
For once their blameless exercise 
May surely be forgiven. 
We roam the seas—give new-found isles 
Some king's or conqueror’s name: 
We rear on earth triumphant piles 
As meeds of earthly fame:— 
We soar to heaven ; and to outlive 
Our life’s contracted span, 
Unto the glorious stars we give 
The names of mortal man : 
Then may not one poor fiow’ret’s bloom 
The holier memory share 
Of Him who, to avert our doom, 
Vouchsafed our sins to bear? 
God dwelleth not in temples reared 
By work of human hands, 
Yet shrines august, by men revered, 
Are found in Christian lands. 
