’T is said that in gorgeous Eastern climes, 
Where folks are too idle for stringing rhymes, 
When a lover would send to his lady a token 
Of love, which in words may not be spoken, 
He hies away to the garden bowers, 
And culls a boquet of the fairest flowers j 
Which, woven together of magic art, 
Are the language of love to the maiden’s heart! 
No tale of passion have I to breathe i 
Yet, gentle reader, I fain would wreathe 
A floral garland, whose leaves shall be 
Emblems and tokens of love to thee. 
Flowers!— they bloom by the lowliest cot— 
May they gladden, and brighten, and bless thy lot! 
