THE POETRY OF FLOWERS, 
Their tendrils, vetch, or pea, or tare, 
At random; and with many a pair 
ball vol Of leaflets green the brake embower, 
And many a pendant-painted flower. 
—p——— 
FLOWERS. 
BY ELIZABETH OAK SMITH, 
Each leaflet is a tiny scroll 
Inscribed with holy truth, 
A lesson that around the heart 
le, Should keep the dew of youth; 
Bright missals from angelic thronga 
In every by-way left 
; How were the earth of glory shorn 
Were it of flowers bereft ! 
They tremble on the Alpine heights, 
| The fissured rock they press, 
| The desert wild with heat and sand, 
8, Shares too their blessedness ; 
And wheresoe’er the weary heart 
Turns in its dim despair, 
The meek-eyed blossom upward looks, 
Inviting it to prayer! 

