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THE POETRY CF FLOWERS. 
Oh! keep the morning of his incarnation, 
The burning noon-tide of his bitter passion, 
The night of his descending, and the height 
Of his ascension,—ever in my sight, 
That, imitating him in what I may, 
I never follow an inferior way. 
—e— 
THE LILY. 
BY SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
THE stream with languid murmur creeps 
In Lumin’s flow’ry vale: 
Beneath the dew the lily weeps, 
Slow waving to the gale. 
Cease, restless gale!’’ it seems to say’ 
‘¢ Nor wake me with thy sighing! 
The honours of my vernal day 
On rapid wings are flying. 
‘ To-morrow shall the traveller come 
Who late beheld me blooming ; 
His searching eye shall vainly roam 
The dreary vale o* Lumin.” 

