114 
DROPS FROM FLORA’S CUP. 
THE SEASON OF FLOWERS. 
MRS. HARRISON SMITH. 
Glad eartli a verdant altar rears, 
Where spring and all her train appears; 
Her balmy airs — her sunny hours — 
Her freshening dews — her od’rous flowers; 
Thence, fragrant exhalations rise, 
Like holy incense to the skies. 
The early birds in choral lay, 
By love attuned, their homage pay; 
Soft winds harmoniously unite 
To breathe forth accents of delight; 
While streamlets, bursting winter’s chain, 
Seek their far way o’er mead and plain, 
Murmuring, as they glide along, 
A cheerful and melodious song. 
Small things material thus proclaim 
The wise Creator’s gracious aim, 
And man be mute — nor fervent raise 
His voice in gratitude and praise ? 
O, shall not human bosoms swell, 
With raptures, language cannot tell; 
In sympathetic ardor glow, 
With all above and all below: 
And in this gladsome season vie 
With water, air, and earth, and sky ? 
