Yet is not life, in its real flight, 
Marked thus — even thus — on earth, 
By the closing of one hope’s delight, 
And another’s gentle bath ? 
Oh ! let us live, so that flower by flower, 
Shutting in turn, may leave 
A lingerer still for the sunset hoip, 
A charm for the shaded eve. 
And among other poets, we often meet with allusions to 
floral dials. 
The dial hid by weeds and flowers, 
Hath told, by none beheld, the solitary hours. 
Young Joy ne’er thought of counting hours. 
’Till Care, one summer’s morning, 
Set up, among his smiling flowers, 
A dial by way of warning. 
Murray. 
What a wide field for the imagination is displayed in the 
succeeding quotation from Hartley Coleridge. We might fancy 
ourselves luxuriating in a garden of roses, where “ every flower 
that blows” would add to our felicity; where the most agree- 
WlLSON. 
