112 
The Poetry of Flowers. 
Yet not the Lily, nor the Rose, 
Though fairer far they be, 
Can more delightful thoughts disclose 
Than I derive from thee : 
The eye their beauty may prefer ; 
The heart is thy interpreter I 
Methinks in thy fair flower is seen, 
By those whose fancies roam, 
An emblem of that leaf of green 
The faithful dove brought home, 
When o’er the world of waters dark 
Were driven the inmates of the ark. 
That leaf betokened freedom nigh 
To mournful captives there ; 
Thy flower foretells a sunnier sky, 
And chides the dark despair 
By Winter’s chilling influence flung 
O'er spirits sunk and nerves unstrung. 
And sweetly has kind Nature’s hand 
Assigned thy dwelling-place 
Beneath a flower whose blooms expand, 
With fond congenial grace, 
On many a desolated pile, 
Bright’ning decay with Beauty’s smile. 
Thine is the flower of Hope, whose hue 
Is bright with coming joy ; 
The Wallflower’s that of Faith, too true 
For ruin to destroy ; 
And where, oh ! where should Hope upspring, 
But under Faith’s protecting wing? 
