6 
LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
Ere long to spring, by second birth, 
A new and nobler work of God. 
’Tis said that microscopic power 
Might through his swaddling folds descry 
The infant image of the flower, 
Too exquisite to meet the eye. 
This vernal suns and rain will swell, 
Till from its dark abode it peep, 
Like Venus rising from her shell, 
Amidst the spring-tide of the deep. 
Two shapely leaves will first unfold; 
Then, on a smooth, elastic stem, 
The verdant bud shall turn to gold, 
And open in a diadem. 
Not one of Flora’s brilliant race 
A form more perfect can display; 
Art could not feign more simple grace, 
Nor Nature take a line away. 
Vet, rich as morn, of many a hue, 
When flushing clouds through darkness strike, 
The Tulip’s petals shine in dew 
All beautiful, but none alike. 
Montgomery. 
