iV Eastern lands they talk in flowers, 
And they tell in a sade and their loves and cares: 
Each blossom that blooms in their garden bowers, 
On its leaves a mystic language bears 
The Rose is a sign of joy and love, 
Young blushing love in its earliest dawn ; 
And the mildness that suits the gentle dove, 
From the Myrtle’s snowy flower is drawn. 
Innocence shines in the Lily’s bell. 
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Pure as the heart in its native heaven : 
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Fame’s bris star and glory's swell, 
In the glos leaf of the Bay are given. 
The silent, soft, and humble heart, 
In the Violet’s hidden sweetness breathes ; 
And the tender soul that cannot part, 
A twine of Evergreen fondly wreathes. 
The Cypress that daily shades the grave, 
Is sorrow that mourns her bitter lot; 
And faith, that a thousand ills can brave, 
Speaks in thy blue leaves, Forget-me-not. 
Then gather a wreath from the garden bowers, 
And tell the wish of thy heart in flowers. 
Perceval, 
Se ES eT LE 


