!i. 
GARDENS, WREATHS, 
Which, consecrate to Salem’s peaceful King, 
Though fair as any gracing Beauty’s bower, 
Is link’d to Sorrow like a holy thing, 
And takes its Name from SufPring’s fiercest hour,— 
Be this thy noblest fame! imperial Passion-flower ! 
Whatever impulse first conferr’d that name, 
(Or Fancy’s dream, or Superstition’s art,) 
I freely own its spirit-touching claim, 
With thoughts and feelings it may well impart: — 
Not that I would forego the surer chart 
Of Revelation — for a mere conceit; 
Yet with indulgence may the Christian’s heart 
Each frail memorial of His Master greet, 
And chiefly what recalls his Love’s most glorious feat. 
Be this the closing tribute of my Strain! 
Be this, Fair Flowers ! of charms—your last, and best 
That when The Son of God for Man was slain, 
Circled by You, He sank awhile to rest,— 
Not The Grave’s captive, but A Garden’s guest* 
So pure and lovely was his transient tomb! 
And He, whose brow the Wreath of Thorns had pres*. 
Not only bore for us Death’s cruel doom, 
But won the thornless Crown of amaranthine bloo** 
