









4 THE fO&CRY OF FLOWERS, 
Hit symbol of imperial state, 
Their sceptre-seeming forms elate, 
And crowns of burnish’d gold. 
But not the less, sweet spring-tide’s flower, 
Dost thou display the Maker’s power, 
His skill and handy work , 
Jur western valleys’ humbler child, 
Where, in green nook of woodland wild, 
Thy modest blossoms lurk. 
What though nor care nor art be thine, 
The loom to ply, the thread to twine, 
Yet born to bloom and fade, 
Thee to a lovelier robe arrays, 
Than, e’en in Israel’s brightest days, 
Her wealthiest kings array’d. 
Of thy twin-leaves the embower’d screen, 
Which wraps thee in thy shroud of green; 
Thy Ecsn-breathing smell ; 
Thy arch’d and purple-vested stem, 
Whence pendent many a pearly gem, 
Displays a milk-white bell; 
Instinct with life thy fibrous root, 
Which sends from earth the ascending shoot. 
As rising from the dead, 
And fills thy veins with verdant juice, 
Charged thy fair blossoms to produce, 
And berries scarlet red ; 






















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