Beautiful, even in its error, seems 
The Pagan offering of Flowers as gifts 
To the Almighty Power; for what so fair— 
So pure, so holy as their fragile fonns? 
Earth’s loveliest offspring, whom the mighty sun 
Looks on with smiles—and whom the careful sky 
Nourishes with soft rain—and whom the dew 
Delights to deck with her enclustered gems. 
Which each, reflecting the soft tint it lights. 
Gains, while it gives, new beauty. 
Oh ! — they’re fair ! 
Most wonderful and lovely ai'e they all,— 
From our own daisy, “ crimson-tipped,” that greets 
Our English childhood with its lowly look. 
To the proud giants of the Western world. 
And gorgeous denizens of either Ind, 
Towering in Nature’s majesty and might, 
And lifting up their radiant heads to hail 
The sun — their monarch—as he burns above. 
Who does not love them ? Reader, if thine heart 
Be one unblessed by such affection, turn 
F'ar from these lays thy cold and careless eye. 
For less than dull to thee the page will seem. 
And if e’en Nature glads thee not, then Art, 
With Natiue for her model, will but tire: 
But ye; Creation’s readers, oh! he mine. 
