




THE POETRY CF FLOWERS. 
Ye are to 
A second birth. 

Were I, O God! in churchless lands remaining, 
Far from all voice of teachers or divines, 
My soul would find in flowers of thy ordaining, 
Priests, sermons, shrines ! 
THE WREATH. 
TO A FRIEND ON HER BIRTHDAY. 
BY WILLIAM PETERS. 
Ler others sing the rich, the great, 
The victor’s palms, the monarch’s state , 
A purer joy be mine— 
To greet the excellent of earth, 
To call down blessings on thy worth, 
And, for the hour that gave thee birth, 
Life’s choicest flowers entwine. 
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