112 DROPS FROM FLORA’S CDP. 
‘ Thou wert not, Solomon, in all thy glory, 
Arrayed,’ the lilies cry, ‘ hi robes like ours ; 
How vain your grandeur! ah, how transitory 
Are human flowers! ’ 
In the sweet-scented pictures, heavenly artist. 
With which thou paintest Nature’s wide-spread 
hall, 
What a delightful lesson thou impartest 
Of love to all! 
Not useless are ye, flowers, though made for 
pleasure; 
Blooming o’er field and wave, by day and night; 
From every source your sanction bids me treasure 
Harmless delight. 
Posthumous glories — angel-like collection! 
Upraised from seed or bulb interred in earth, 
Ye are to me a type of resurrection, 
And second birth. 
Were I, 0 God! in churchless lands remaining, 
Far from all voice of teachers and divines, 
My soul would find, in flowers of thy ordaining, 
Priests, sermons, shrines! 
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