PASSION-FLOWER. 
137 
God dwelleth not in temples raised 
By work of human hands; 
Yet shrines august, by men revered, 
Are found in Christian lands. 
And may not e’en a simple flower 
Proclaim his glorious praise, 
Whose fiat only had the power 
Its form from earth to raise? 
Then freely let the blossoms ope, 
Its beauties to recall, 
A scene which bids the humble hope 
In him who died for all. 
The same .— dr. edmund cartwright. 
Yon mystic flower, with gold and azure bright, 
Whose stem luxuriant speaks a vigorous root, 
Unfolds her blossoms to the morn’s salute, 
That close and die in the embrace of night. 
No luscious fruits the cheated taste invite 
Her short-lived blossoms, ere they lead to fruit, 
Demand a genial clime, and suns that shoot 
Their rays direct, with undiminish’d light. 
Thus hope, the passion-flower of human life, 
Whose wild luxuriance mocks the pruner’s knife. 
Profuse in promise makes a like display 
Of evanescent blooms — that last a day ; 
To cheer the mental eye no more is given: 
The fruit is only to be found — in heaven. 
